


Wreck

by JMilz



Series: Trust & Wreck [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Canon Compliant, Draco Malfoy is a Good Boyfriend, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Happy Ending, Hermione Granger-centric, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity, Memories, Minister for Magic Hermione Granger, Old Flames, Relationship Problems, Ron Weasley Bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 187,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMilz/pseuds/JMilz
Summary: Serving as Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger is finally at the peak of her career. With a beautiful family, a successful book, and the public on her side, her life should be a fairytale. Unfortunately, there is trouble in paradise, and when Draco Malfoy pays her a visit, she begins recalling their history and questioning her marriage. The reality is: every relationship is hard.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: Trust & Wreck [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880860
Comments: 59
Kudos: 143





	1. History

The quaint Godric's Hollow home reeked of burning hair and cat vomit. Hermione Granger wrestled with a high heel shoe as her husband, Ron Weasley, fiddled with a small cauldron, his tongue poking out of his mouth. The barstool he sat upon squawked as he rocked back and forth in his usual drunken stupor. For them, it was a normal day.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. His eyes were fixed on the cauldron as he pawed at his half-empty bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. At last, his hand found the bottle and he took a determined swig. He left it uncapped and the elixir supplemented a sour smell to the already putrid air.

"Are you going to come today?" Hermione inquired, putting on her jacket. "I'll be at Flourish and Blotts until about three. We could get lunch after."

Ron didn't look up. "Can you stop by the ol' Leaky and bring me a sandwich on your way back?"

Hermione frowned. While she expected him to answer in such a way, she had hoped that he wouldn't. It was one of the most important days of her life, and her husband was going to miss it. Melancholy slowly swallowed her as she realized that she would be celebrating her success alone.

"I don't think they have sandwiches, Ron."

He took another drink of firewhisky and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm _sure_ they do."

"Why don't you come yourself and find out?" she asked, leaning against the front door. "It won't be long."

Ron shook his head. "Can't."

"You can't spare an hour?" she hinted, sadness in her tone. "Just come to the Leaky Cauldron at three. I'll meet you there."

Ron dropped two cat hairs into the concoction. "I have work to do. Have fun, dear."

With a defeated sigh, Hermione nodded and Apparated to her favorite bookstore.

* * *

Flourish and Blotts was buzzing. Hundreds of witches and wizards had gathered around the table where she sat, signing the inner covers of her perfect, powder blue book. In gleaming metallic text, _The Witches of the Wizengamot_ proudly stared back at her. It was a subtle congratulation for all of her research and tenacity to finish it, despite responsibilities at the Ministry.

The manager had only allowed a certain number of people inside the store, turning away the rest. It was a common practice with celebrity releases. There were only so many copies available, and the manager fully expected to sell out of them. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, counting Galleons as fascinated customers pushed past each other to get through the doors.

Many of the people that approached her seemed more excited to meet the Minister for Magic than they were to read her book. While she expected it, she had been hopeful that people were actually interested in feminist Wizengamot history. Even though she was slightly disappointed, she signed each one and treated every customer with the same amount of kindness that she had the last.

"Big fan," a wizard said, shaking her hand. He wore dozens of scarves and a holey, stinking jacket. "Your work with house-elves is an inspiration to us all. I've been fighting injustice against them for years and finally someone has done something about it. A pleasure, Minister, truly a pleasure."

Hermione blushed and thanked him, scribbling down a signature. "To my biggest fan," she read aloud.

Graciously, the man bowed and scampered away.

A witch with a crooked hat and heavy eyeliner stepped forward. "What are you going to do about all of the toads in the pond behind Bugglesnort's?"

Taken aback, Hermione scribbled her signature in a book. "Well, they're toads. They live in ponds."

The woman blinked a few times. "Yes, but what are you going to _do_ about it?"

"Thank you, ma'am," Hermione grumbled, holding out the book for her to take.

"Nothing, then?" the woman scoffed. "Public servant, my arse!" She stormed out of the bookstore, earning concerned glances from both Hermione and a handful of other customers.

Hermione saw that they were finally approaching the end of the line and let out a sigh of relief. Though she wanted the day to have gone perfectly, she admitted to herself that it hadn't. The signing had turned into a soapbox for all of the witches and wizards that felt that their voices went unheard. Some wanted to pitch new laws while others wanted to simply shake her hand. She was enthralled that more people wanted to engage in the political process, but she was ready for the photographs and the longwinded speeches to come to an end. They all left with a book, but she was not so sure that they would read it as she intended.

She kept conversations brief as she signed the final books and passed them back to their new owners. Waving goodbye to the second to last visitor, she waited for the final customer. To her surprise, a familiar, svelte figure approached her.

"Draco!" she gasped, hurriedly getting to her feet. She wrapped her arms around him in a platonic embrace. "What are you doing here?"

He offered her his signature smirk, pulling away from their hug. "Lovely to see you, Granger. Congratulations on the book."

"Thank you, thank you," she replied, blushing. "It's been so long! I haven't seen you since—" Her face fell. The two of them had barely seen one another since his wife, Astoria, passed away. The only time that they had, there were much more urgent things to address. "Draco, I'm so sorry."

He leaned against the table where the final book lay. "Don't be. It's been a long time."

She cleared her throat, trying to avoid the somber topic hanging in the air. "So what brings you here?"

"Well, the _Prophet_ said your book signing was today so I thought it'd be worth stopping by," he replied, looking around the shop. "I haven't been in here since I was a kid. My mother always takes Scorpius to shop for his books."

"Well, would you like a copy?" she asked, reaching behind her for the last book. She scribbled something inside of it and offered it to him.

"Thanks." He held the book in the crook of his arm. Calculation was written in his face. "I'm surprised that Weasley isn't here for your big day."

Hermione coughed. The two of them had not spoken since they had apprehended a rather unpleasant witch by the name of Delphi. Back then, she did not have the time to properly express her sympathy, especially since Ron was always with her. Unfortunately for Draco, Astoria would never be with him again. Hermione wished that she had not treated the woman as coldly as she did on the two occasions that she had seen her. Though she did not like admitting it, she acted as jealous as Ron did sometimes.

"Yes, well, he's quite busy," she mumbled, avoiding his gaze. Guilt clawed at her from the inside. Her husband was a fool, but at least he was still alive. She took it for granted.

He frowned. "Granger, it's been over two years. You don't need to toe around it."

"I _am_ very sorry," she whispered, reaching out to give his hand a solemn squeeze. "I can't even imagine."

"It's fine," he said, his voice cold. After an awkward few seconds, he smirked. "Besides, looks like I have something to read to keep my mind off things now."

Her demeanor quickly changed as she gave him the same Malfoy smirk that he had given her. Her mind was still racing, thoughts of Draco sobbing over his dead wife torturing her. Alas, she knew that she had to lighten the mood. He needed her to. "So you're a history fan all of a sudden, then? I wouldn't pin you for the type to be interested in Julia Dunkirk."

Draco chuckled, putting a hand in his pocket. The book hugged his side, showing off the slim figure that he had maintained over the many years. "Just some light reading for a rainy afternoon."

Skeptical of his intentions, Hermione finally asked, "What _did_ you stop by for?" She rubbed her temples, as the awkwardness of the situation became overwhelming. "I'm _so_ sorry. I just mean—are you okay? Do you need anything?"

He raised a speculative eyebrow. "Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?"

Hermione knew that he wasn't telling her everything. She ran her tongue over her teeth and said, "Malfoys don't simply stop by for impromptu chats with Mudbloods. You aren't well. You need something."

"Snappy as ever, Granger," he teased, a glint in his eye. "As a matter of fact, I think this is the most well I've been since it happened."

"Draco, you can't _possibly_ be okay."

He rolled his eyes, wishing that she would stop bringing it up. "How is Weasley?"

Suddenly, she was uncomfortable. She wasn't sure how to answer the question. Ron barely spoke to her, contributing little more than grunts and curse words to their conversations. While he chalked it up to work, Hermione knew that they did not have anything to discuss. Over the years, the difference in their interests had become even more obvious than it had been in the past. Still, she could not complain. Ron was crass, but he was still alive.

After a discomfited pause, she replied, "Working a lot."

Draco nodded, his expression inquisitive. Nevertheless, he did not press her. "I imagine you are too, being the Minister and all. Are you even allowed to talk to me in public? The _Prophet_ will probably have a field day."

Hermione laughed, grateful that he had changed the subject. "I think the reasonable people of the world are past all that now, Draco. It's been a long time."

"Ah, but reasonable people are quite rare, aren't they? There are plenty out there that would have your head over a 'Minister and the Death Eater' headline."

"Old, close-minded people maybe. Nobody that _really_ matters."

"I don't know. Scorpius tells me there are some pretty nasty kids at school still," he said. "Have all sorts of things to say about me and Astoria. I would think they're learning it somewhere, but maybe not. Kids are cruel." He shrugged.

"You would know!" Hermione giggled, pushing him lightly. For the first time since he walked in, his melancholy situation was not at the forefront of her thoughts. "You were absolutely _awful_ to me in school."

"Was I?" he asked, smirking.

Her face turned scarlet. She was eager to change the topic again. "How _is_ Scorpius?" She regretted the question as soon as it fell from her mouth, realizing it was the last thing that she should have asked.

"He's doing as well as he can be, I think," he replied, his eyes fixed on the floorboards. "He's a bit young for all of this but he's a Malfoy. He'll move on."

"I didn't mean to ask," she whispered, feeling sickeningly inconsiderate. "I really don't know what to say."

Draco smiled, sadly. "We expected it, so I suppose that helped. She had been ill for a long while."

The inevitable uncomfortable silence followed. Their history loomed in the air, softly whispering reminders of one another. Pale skin carried memories of the many years that they spent together, quarreling, apologizing, exchanging words both hateful and pleasant. Things left unsaid clouded their thoughts, gently tormenting them. The two of them had been through a lot together, yet somehow, their interactions had never felt as forced as they did in that moment.

"I ought to get home," Hermione lamely mumbled, hoping to excuse herself from the awkward encounter. She touched his arm. "I'm truly sorry about Astoria, Draco. If you need anything _at all_ , you know where you can find Ron and myself."

She slung her dragon-skin purse over her shoulder, ready to make her exit, but she was interrupted. A cool, familiar hand lightly touched hers.

"How about lunch?" Draco inquired, his grey eyes swimming with intent. "Nothing fancy, just the Leaky. Just us."

Hermione watched his hand as he drew away from her. It was not the gesture of a grieving man, but the gesture of an eager one. "I don't know, Draco..." She trailed off, calculating the situation.

"Look, I'm really not trying to get vulnerable here, Granger," he said, darkly.

Hermione knew that Draco had a tendency to hide his emotions with humor and flirtation. He was in pain, but there was something else. She saw it in his eyes. It was a look that she knew well, one that he had given her many times when they were many years younger.

"Well, Ron is probably—" She stopped in the middle of her sentence. Ron was not waiting for her. She would only be lying to herself if she said that he was. Suddenly, she felt guilty. The widower had not known friendship in quite some time. It was clear that he was reaching out, aching for some kind of human contact. When she needed him, Draco had been there for her. It was only fair that she returned the favor. "Actually, never mind. I'm sorry. Lunch sounds lovely."

Draco smiled and beckoned her with his free hand, still holding her book in the crook of his arm. "After you, Granger."


	2. Envy

The Leaky Cauldron was empty, except for a few regulars. Lunchtime was not the most popular hour for witches and wizards to visit the inn, making it an ideal spot for a high profile witch to eat lunch after a busy book signing.

With keen eyes, Hermione looked around for any reporters from the _Daily Prophet_. She and Draco sat across from each other in the hole-in-the-wall eatery, both keeping to themselves. Poorly informed publications had been her enemy since she was a teenager, so it felt natural to worry as she sat so close to a reformed Death Eater. Paranoia followed her everywhere she went. It was the best repellent for public scrutiny.

Hermione sat quietly, twiddling her thumbs as she waited for the waitress to visit their table. She bounced her leg, nervously, unsure how she felt about sharing a meal with a grieving Draco Malfoy.

"So what's it like being the Minister for Magic?" Draco asked, taking a sip of tea. "Must be all ball gowns and chardonnay."

Hermione dropped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Working for the government was not as glamorous as she imagined that it would be. "It's mostly signing off on things and meetings. _So_ many meetings."

A messy-headed waitress finally slunk to their table. "Are you two ready to order yet?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The waitress's deep-set, sleepless eyes reminded her of Ron. He had violet bags upon his face since they got married, only growing darker and more severe as he sucked down decades worth of alcohol. The waitress's careless gaze sent a shiver down her spine. It was almost like her husband was watching her through the tired woman's eyes.

"I'll take the steak and kidney pie, thanks," Hermione said, forcing a quick smile. She immediately looked away, unable to look directly at the underslept and overworked woman.

"Of course, Minister," the waitress replied. She turned to Draco. "And you?"

"The Leaky House Soup."

The waitress scurried to the kitchen, shouting the order at the cooks before ducking behind the bar. She scrubbed a pint glass with a filthy rag, her eyes fixated on Draco and Hermione's table.

Small talk was part of Hermione's everyday life as Minister for Magic, meeting with ambassadors from other magical communities around the world. Nevertheless, she chewed on her lip, wondering how she was supposed to make small talk with someone that she had once known so well. His wife's death was such a taboo subject, but it was all that was on her mind. "Is Scorpius going to spend the holidays with you?"

Draco nodded. "He's going to stay with my parents, but I'll spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with him. He stayed with them last year and it seemed to be for the best."

A regretful expression came over Hermione's face. The clinking of a nearby customer leaving his table filled the silence between them.

"I _am_ sorry, Draco—about Astoria," she whispered, reaching out to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"I don't need any more apologies, Granger, really," he said, waving his hands in surrender. "Everyone wants to talk about her but if I'm being honest, it's not exactly my subject of choice. It's done now."

Hermione nodded, not sure what else to say. Unspoken details swarmed in her head as she could not help but wonder how everything had happened. Draco could see the questions in her expression. He hoped that they would subside, tired of explaining the situation to everyone that he spoke to. He had finished his grieving. He was ready to move on, but he wasn't sure if Hermione would allow it.

The waitress fetched two dishes from the kitchen window and quickly brought them to their table. She gave them a rotten-toothed smile and hissed, "Enjoy."

Draco and Hermione both eyed her as she slunk back to the bar. She kept watching them, a knowing grin plastered on her pallid face. Such stares were not new to Hermione, but she suspected that the overflowing amount of interest was due to the man that she had chosen to join for lunch.

"Is this what it's always like?" he sneered. "People staring at you and such?"

Hermione pondered for a few seconds, preparing her answer. Unfortunately, she could not find a way to put it lightly. "Sometimes. Honestly, I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm here with you."

"Minister and the Death Eater, just like I said," he growled.

She sighed. "Don't get too worked up about it. The more they see there's nothing to talk about, the less they stare." Her questions continued to swirl in her eyes as she stared at the man across from her. "Draco, are you _sure_ you're okay? You just seem so...tense."

Draco nodded, still glaring at the waitress. After the woman looked down at the glass that she was scrubbing, he fixed his gaze upon Hermione. Even after so many years had passed, he could still read her face like a book. "Since you're so curious, I suppose I'll have to tell you everything. Maybe then you can stop asking so many questions."

She cleared her throat, expectantly, unsure how she should respond.

"I'm sure you heard that she was quite ill."

Hermione had known of Astoria's state both after Scorpius was born and towards the end of her life. "The blood curse. There was talk of it."

"Yes, a curse. The lies certainly didn't help," he elaborated. "Honestly, before the illness really set in, we weren't doing very well. I wanted a divorce. I even told her as much. She wasn't opposed to the idea, but we were waiting until Scorpius was home so he wasn't surprised by any of the proceedings."

"I had no idea things were so bad," Hermione said, quietly.

Draco shrugged. "We just weren't getting on as well as we did when we first got married. Arguing all the time, unhappy. The rumors ate away at her, and the longer we dealt with it all, the more obvious it was that we couldn't cope—not how we were, anyway. She blamed me. Thought that nobody would've accused her of such a heinous thing if she hadn't married a Malfoy, and honestly, she was probably right."

"Draco, that's ridiculous," she breathed. "Of course that wasn't your fault."

"Perhaps not, but she didn't see it that way. It didn't matter though. She was getting weak, pale. Before we could get to any paperwork, I realized that she wouldn't be able to take care of herself on her own. So we set aside our differences so she could pass in comfort. I think that I did right by her and Scorpius. I tried, anyway." He watched her intently, waiting for her to respond. There was a sense of ambition about him. Hermione had not seen that side of him since they were teenagers.

Cautiously, Hermione inquired, "And why are you telling me all this?"

Draco gave her a sharp look. Even through the subtle crow's feet, his steely gaze sent shivers down her spine. He had aged well, his hair only growing whiter and his stature still slender and toned. Hermione could not help but notice that the years had treated him better than they had treated Ron.

"You've always been clever, Granger. Let's not play stupid now."

Hermione drew in a deep breath. "You haven't touched your soup."

He took another sip of tea and leaned forward. "You have to know I didn't ask you here for the award-winning cuisine."

The waitress had put her ear towards them, eager to hear the conversation. Hermione cast a quick muffling charm. The eavesdropping waitress cursed to herself and went back to the kitchen.

"I'm getting old, Hermione."

" _We're_ getting old," Hermione corrected with a nervous laugh. "I keep sprouting grey hairs."

He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling. "Yet somehow, you're still striking as ever."

Her face became a vibrant shade of crimson. It had been decades since anyone had complimented her in such a manner. Even on their wedding day, Ron had become so drunk he forgot most of it. She had spent months visiting bridal shops with Fleur, and he would never remember what she looked like.

_"_ _I'll see pictures," was his excuse._

_"_ _That's not good enough, Ron!" Hermione had cried on their wedding night. "Today was supposed to be perfect and you_ ruined _it!"_

"Draco," she groaned, shaking the unhappy memory, "did you bring me here to make me feel bad for you so you could make passes at me?"

At last, he shoveled a spoonful of soup into his mouth. He elegantly placed the spoon back into the bowl and simply replied, "No, though I'm sure you're enjoying it, anyway."

She rolled her eyes. He was the same person that he had been during their N.E.W.T. year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Unusual friendships bloomed during those solemn terms, including their own. Still, time had done its damage. She was not sure she knew him as well as she did back then.

An awkward silence fell between them once more. Hermione was not sure how to communicate with the widower beyond offering her condolences. Draco Malfoy was not one to accept apologetic exchanges, and he often filled the empty air with slick comments and his fiery tenacity. She didn't know if it was his way of bypassing his feelings or if he was trying to express them.

Draco exhaled. "I holed up in our cottage for a long while, avoiding everyone. Mostly the questions. It's been long enough now. I think it was finally time to see you. I wasn't sure when I'd have another chance."

Hermione froze. "Draco, I—"

"You don't have to say anything," he interjected. "I'm in my forties now. Half my life has been chaos and the other half has been—" He stopped for a moment, trying to find the right words. "—well, I'm not sure what the other half has been, but it certainly has not been what I envisioned for myself."

"I don't know how I'd fix any of that," Hermione murmured, picking at her meal.

Draco rubbed his temples. "I don't need you to _fix_ it, Granger. I just needed to see you."

Hermione looked down. "Look, Draco, I'm not sure what you brought me here for, but again, I am sorry about Astoria." She stood up and fumbled in her purse. She tossed two Galleons on the table. "Enjoy the book. Maybe it'll get your mind off things."

With that, she rushed out of the Leaky Cauldron, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked behind her, briefly, wondering if she handled the situation poorly. Unfortunately, she was interrupted before she could decide.

"Minister!" a passerby exclaimed, flashing a camera in her face. The man took another photograph, grinning. "Minister, who were you in the Leaky Cauldron with? What's got your wand in a knot today?"

She scowled and Apparated to her home in Godric's Hollow.

* * *

The house smelled even worse than it did when she left in the morning. Ron was sitting in the same place, his mouth wrapped around a new bottle of firewhisky. His greasy, grey-and-red hair was standing every-which-way and he still had not found the energy to put on any trousers. Clearly, he had not showered in days—perhaps weeks. Hermione sighed and kicked off her high heels.

"How was your day?" she asked, hanging her jacket. "Did you get anywhere with your invention?"

Ron belched and shook his head. "Nope."

Her children waved at her from a photograph hanging on the wall behind Ron. She waved at them, somberly, before averting her gaze back to her husband. "The book signing went well. I'm pretty sure half the people were there just to get their fifteen seconds with the Minister, though."

" _Mmhmm_ ," he mumbled, carelessly.

"Did you know there's a movement to illegalize dragon heartstring wands? _The Quibbler_ had a think piece theorizing that a powerful witch or wizard could turn into an actual _dragon_ if they were to wield one. It has quite a surprising following," she said, amused. "It's incredible what people will fight for nowadays."

Ron's focus flickered towards her. He noticed that she had come into the house empty-handed. "Did you remember my sandwich?"

Hermione frowned. "Sandwich?"

Annoyed, Ron groaned. " _Hermione_ , I asked you to grab me a sandwich from the Leaky. It's the _one_ thing I asked of you today."

"Ron, I'm still fairly certain they don't serve sandwiches," she said, quietly. "But I'm sorry. I forgot."

Ron took a drink from the bottle. Dark circles under his eyes were a constant reminder that his drinking had gotten out of control over the years. He was helping manage Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but at some point, managing stopped being enough. Eager to live up to George's expectations, he spent most days at home, trying to make inventions that could be sold in the store. A year had passed and he had not created one worthy item.

Hermione sat down on the sofa, trying not to lock eyes with her inebriated husband. They did not often speak to one another, but keeping their exchanges short seemed to be the key to their marriage. When they said too much, they ended up fighting.

"So you didn't eat then," he pointed out. "Can you whip something up real quick? I'm starving."

Hermione looked at the floor, her heart pounding in her ears. "Well, actually I did eat." Trepidation touched her words. She was not sure how Ron would react to her encounter with Draco Malfoy.

He spun around on the barstool. "Where?"

"Leaky," she muttered.

"And you still didn't get me something?"

Wrinkling her brow, Hermione replied, "Well, since you asked for a _sandwich_ , and they don't serve them, no, I didn't get you anything. And it wasn't my idea! Um—someone popped into the book signing. We just—we just got lunch."

Ron looked wary. "Who? Ginny? Luna?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. Actually, it was—um—Draco Malfoy." Her heart beat even faster as she awaited his reaction.

"And he just wanted to take you to lunch?" He narrowed his eyes. "I didn't think he dined with Mudbloods."

" _Ron!_ " she screeched. She abhorred the word when pure-bloods used it. It stung like acid. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away. He did not deserve to see her at her most vulnerable.

He rolled his eyes. " _I_ wouldn't call you that, but he would, wouldn't he?"

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "No, I don't think that he would. Not now, anyway."

Ron took another drink, the warmth running into his belly. He patted the large gut that he had acquired over time. "Well, what did the git want?"

She shrugged. "Just to catch up."

"About what?" he scoffed. "Good ol' times when he was trying to kill people just like you?"

She glared. "No."

"Then what?" he asked, throwing his hands up, spilling some firewhisky all over the kitchen floor. "What could Draco Malfoy and you _possibly_ need to go to lunch for?"

"His _wife_ died!" she spat. "He wanted to talk to a friend. I don't think that's such a crime, Ronald."

Ron snickered, taking a swig of firewhisky. "A friend? Is that what he calls it?"

"Yes, a friend." she said, firmly.

"Interesting term," he muttered. "He bullied you for how many years and now the slick git gets to call you a friend?"

"We were all dumb back then, Ron," Hermione reminded him. Her voice turned cold, dripping with venom. "Kids are dreadful as it is, and most of them didn't grow up with a father like Lucius Malfoy." She paused for a moment, waiting for his reply.

He did not respond. Instead, he stared her down, fuming. Jealousy had always been one of Ron's most toxic traits, and as he and his wife grew further apart, it only boiled within him more and more. He envied the men she worked with, the authors she admired, the professors she spoke so highly of, and his brother-in-law. They all kept her attention better than he did. He was not sure how to make her love him like she did when they were young.

"Why do you care now, anyway?" she pressed. "You didn't seem to have a problem with him last time we saw him!"

"He's a man and he's asking my wife to lunch— _alone_. I think I get to be a little bit angry, Hermione," he snarled.

Hermione got to her feet and balled her fists. "No, Ron. Actually, you _don't_ get to be angry, because if you had come to lunch with me in the first place, he wouldn't have been alone with me!"

She stormed away to her study, slamming the door behind her. They had said too much to one another, and just like it always did, it ended in an argument.


	3. Epiphany

Parchment was stacked to the ceiling in Hermione Granger's office. She chewed thoughtfully on her quill as she carefully reviewed each individual motion; as per usual, some requests were less reasonable than others. The Ministry of Magic was sending her more paperwork than she had expected, but she was determined to finish before the end of the day. She had a reputation to uphold.

She scrawled her name across an appeal for custody of a Thestral named Angelo. It was not the most bizarre request that she had ever agreed to. Once, a goblin had appealed for goblin silver to be recognized as the only legitimate currency in the United Kingdom.

"Minister?" a small voice called, knocking at her door.

Hermione sighed, desperately wishing that she could tell the visitor to leave her alone so she could focus. Ironically, she had little say regarding her priorities ever since she became the Minister for Magic.

"Yes?" she replied, exasperated. She waved her wand and the heavy, bronze door swung open.

Madelyn, her petite assistant, was red in the face. Guilt overwhelmed her when she interrupted the Minister's important work, especially when she was not able to bring good news. She scratched the back of her neck, accidentally catching a few hairs from her tight red bun.

"H-hi, Minister," she stammered, trying to smooth her fly-away hairs. She was trembling, unsure how to hand the Minister the newspaper that was under her arm.

"Madelyn." Hermione craned her neck. She could see the rolled-up paper that her assistant was trying to conceal. "What do you have there?"

With a terrified gulp, Madelyn stammered, "M-m-ma'am, I-I'm s-sorry. Please d-don't be upset."

A curious expression made its way onto Hermione's face. She held her hand out. "Well, let's have it then."

Madelyn sighed and approached Hermione's gargantuan, jewel-encrusted desk. (It was too ostentatious for the Minister's taste, but she did not have the heart to change anything. Kingsley Shacklebolt had loved the gaudy décor and it reminded her of him.) The portraits' eyes followed Madelyn as she placed the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ onto the marble surface, chewing on her lip.

Hermione took a deep breath and slowly picked it up. The headline read, "MINISTER FOR MAGIC STORMS OUT OF LEAKY CAULDRON—BUREAUCRACY GONE WRONG?" in tall, bold letters. She expected the article after the reporter took her photograph while she was on her way home from the inn. Though she knew the _Prophet_ almost always presented ill-informed news, she was surprised that they printed a story without even the smallest bit of merit.

_Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger, was seen storming out of the Leaky Cauldron on the 30th of November. The Minister was expected to meet with the Japanese Minister for Magic this week. Sources claim that her departure from the Leaky Cauldron was, indeed, in correlation to international relations._

_Granger has a long history of walking out of work-related events. On the 14th of April, reports showed that she and her husband, Ronald Weasley, left a gala meant to welcome Ukrainian ambassadors. Before that, on the 31st of December, the Minister was seen stumbling out of the Three Broomsticks, again with her husband, when she was scheduled to attend a New Year's Eve event with members of the Wizengamot._

_Despite her inability to perform basic job requirements, the Minister currently has a 79% approval rating—higher than any other Minister for Magic has ever scored._

The _Prophet_ often stretched the truth, and the article was no exception. She had left the gala because Ron was too drunk to socialize with her colleagues. She had left the Three Broomsticks because, again, Ron was too drunk to socialize with her colleagues. Unfortunately, she was unable to defend herself without making it public information that her husband was an alcoholic.

"Oh, this is just _silly_ ," Hermione scoffed. "I'd like to meet their 'sources' they mention." She made air quotes with her fingers.

"I-I'm sorry, Minister," Madelyn said in a small voice, wringing her hands. "Should I contact them and ask them?"

Hermione laughed and shook her head. "No, Madelyn."

"What if they reach out to us for comment?" she asked, her voice going up an octave.

Hermione thought for a moment. She knew that she couldn't tell the _Prophet_ that she was having lunch with a Malfoy. Her less open-minded supporters would accuse her of being a Death Eater sympathizer. Then, the _Prophet_ would have an article that was actually worth writing.

"Tell them I was meeting an old friend," Hermione replied, thoughtfully. "If they want more information, arrange a press conference. You can excuse yourself, now. I have some work to do."

Madelyn nodded and hurried out the door, closing it behind her. Relief washed over her. The Minister had taken the news better than she thought she would.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, her wand in her hand. She looked at the stack of parchment looming over her and groaned. The _Daily Prophet_ article had robbed her of her mood to work.

The previous day had been draining. Not only had she met with a recently widowed Draco Malfoy, but she and Ron had had an argument as soon as she arrived home. Arguing with Ron was nothing new. Seeing Draco Malfoy, however, was not a regular part of her schedule.

She and Draco had a long, complicated history. He spent years bullying her, calling her the most offensive word that he could, spitting her surname with disgust, standing by as people he knew tormented her. There was even a day that Hermione had slapped him. If she had asked her thirteen-year-old self, she would have said that he was the foulest, most evil boy that she had ever known.

Then, the war ended. Harry and Ron never came back to Hogwarts and Hermione returned to finish her N.E.W.T. year. People from both sides were downtrodden, bereaving from losing their loved ones either to death or Azkaban. Everyone that had fought in the final battle was at their most vulnerable, Hermione and Draco included.

While Ginny spent most evenings scribbling letters to Harry, Hermione retreated to the library. Occasionally, Luna and Neville would stop by the school to check on her, but Hermione refused to upset them any more than they already were. Instead, she swallowed her emotions and studied, pretending that nothing was wrong.

As the year's events unfolded, she found herself spending more and more time with a rather unexpected individual.

Memories of her N.E.W.T. year were bittersweet. Secretly, she yearned to go back.

_The Quidditch pitch was frosted with several inches of snow and as Hermione sat alone in the stands, snowflakes fell onto her pale nose. Her breath was cold smoke as she stared at the grey, afternoon sky._

_She closed her eyes and images of the war came back to her—her friends, mangled and dead, the perverse face of Voldemort, the terror in Harry's eyes. She saw the visions when she slept, when she closed her eyes, when she looked in the mirror—no matter where she went, she could not escape her own hell. It was ceaseless._

_A tear ran down her rosy cheek. The single teardrop was the start of uncontrollable, wracking sobs. She put her face in her hands and bawled, the frigid air biting at her ears._

_Suddenly, she heard the sound of shoes crunching in the snow. She wiped the tears away and seized her wand, her eyes darting back and forth. The intruder was near._

_"Going to hex me, Granger?" a sly voice asked._

_Hermione instinctively pointed her wand towards the voice. Draco Malfoy's hands were in his pockets, but he was not reaching for his wand. He stepped onto the Quidditch pitch, empty tracks trailing behind him. His silvery blond hair danced in the wind as he walked up the creaking, wooden stairs of the stands._

_"You startled me," she growled, lowering her wand. "Why are you down here, anyway?"_

_He sat beside her and shivered. "I could ask you the same thing. It's bloody freezing."_

_Hermione did not respond._

_"Have it your way, then," Draco sighed, leaning forward. He laced his fingers together and hung his head._

_Her teeth chattered and she rubbed her forearms, aching for warmth. Draco looked at her from the corner of his eye._

_"Just as stubborn as always." He removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders._

_She stared at him, questioningly. "Why did you do that?"_

_He flared his nostrils. "I'd rather hand you my jacket than carry you to the Hospital Wing for frostbite. Merlin knows they'd think I cursed you."_

_A small smirk made its way onto her pink lips while she wrapped herself tightly in the jet black pea coat. It was cozy, smelling of musk and Fraser fir. Draco studied her as she basked in its masculine comfort._

_They sat in silence for a long while, neither of them sure if the other was grateful for the company. The snow melted into their hair and ran in arctic streams down their pale faces._

_"Draco?"_

_"Yes?" he answered, not turning his head tow_ _ards her._

_"Thank you," she whispered, tugging on the front of the black pea coat, "for the jacket."_

_Draco looked at her, his gaze calculating. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded and muttered, "Any time."_

_Quiet blanketed the two of them until she sighed. "I still see it."_

_"Me too, Granger."_

_Nervously, she scooted closer towards him. He watched her, inquisitively. They were so close together that she could feel him against her right side, and to her surprise, his warmth was soothing._

_"Come here," he murmured, wrapping his arm around her bony frame._

_Apprehensively, she leaned into him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her wild hair flew into his face, but he only pulled her closer._

_Silence fell between them again. It was not uncomfortable that time. They needed one another in that moment, just like they had needed each other since the beginning of the term. It was the first time that they were able to accept it._

_Tears fell down Hermione's cheek once more. She cried into his shoulder and he kept his arm around her, firmly. In a way, it felt like he was protecting her._

_"Do you think it'll ever stop?" she whispered in between soft sobs._

_He appeared to be deep in thought for a moment. Hermione waited, patiently._

_Finally, he looked down at her and softly said, "No."_

_She frowned. "That's hardly comforting."_

_"But it's the truth," he whispered. "It won't go away. It may get better, though. I can't say for sure."_

_Hermione curled her fingers around the front of his robes. Her tears stopped. "Why did you come out here?"_

_"I imagine for the same reason that you did."_

_She chewed on her lip. "Did you know I was out here?"_

_Draco shook his head. "I didn't."_

_She nodded. No more words were spoken between them. They sat together, holding tightly to one another, the snow falling around them in twinkling resolve._

A tear fell down Hermione's cheek as she recalled the memory. Draco had not lied to her. The images of the war never faded, but over time, she grew to accept them.

Her heart was in her throat, choking her as reality swallowed her whole. She knew on the Quidditch pitch that day that Draco was meant to be an imperative part of her life. He knew it too, and they both knew that was why he sat with her. Before then, he would have spat venom and stormed away, refusing to sit anywhere near a Muggle-born. He had changed. _They_ had changed.

She rubbed her temples, clawing for the reasons that she married Ron. She desperately wanted to feel grateful for him. Draco had lost his wife to a curse she never earned. He was alone. Even when they had marital problems, he stayed with her until the end for her sake. She would be selfish not to value what she had with her husband. Alas, she felt only confusion as she found herself reflecting on what Draco had said.

_"Honestly, before the illness really set in, we weren't doing very well. I wanted a divorce."_

Before her N.E.W.T. year, she had been enamored by Ron. The gangly redhead was blind to her advances for far too long, leaving her to cry herself to sleep for more nights than she could count. When they finally kissed during the final battle, it felt like a victory. She had finally won what she had been fighting for. Her tear-stained pillows had all been worth it.

They grew apart during her N.E.W.T. year. He rarely answered her letters. He never acknowledged their kisses or wandering hands. She felt sick for weeks, wondering if she had hallucinated his lips on hers.

Then one day, she woke up and it had stopped hurting. All the time she spent crying over him seemed trivial. She didn't find a private corner in the library to mope. She didn't sit in her dormitory alone. Instead, she giddily met her friends at Hogsmeade and enjoyed the same libations that everyone else did. Ron just wasn't important anymore.

Still, he returned to her after her N.E.W.T. year. He never apologized. She never forgave him. That did not keep them from pursuing one another in adulthood, eager to prove what they both suspected since their fourth year.

_Ron had proposed to her. It was not the fairytale proposal that she dreamed of as a young girl, but it was better than she could have expected from someone like him. He took her to dinner. They ate pasta and he paid for wine. With his mouth full, he had asked, "Hermione, you reckon we should get married?"_

_She wasn't sure what to make of it. Nevertheless, she agreed to marry him. Her mind was scrambled._

_"Do you think I'm insane?" Hermione murmured, staring at her ring. "I mean—ugh. Harry, we fight so much, lately."_

_Harry shrugged. "You and Ron have been going at it for years. You always make up."_

_"That isn't what I asked."_

_He sighed. "Well, I don't think I'm the right person to ask, Hermione. I can't exactly tell you to break off your engagement to my best friend."_

_"But I'm your best friend too," Hermione pointed out. "You can't pick sides here, Harry."_

_He took his glasses off. "We ought to get to bed, Hermione. Mrs. Weasley likes to start early."_

_Hermione frowned. "I gave him an ultimatum, you know. I told him I'd leave him if he didn't propose by Christmas."_

_Harry narrowed his eyes. Without his spectacles, Hermione was only a blur. "Do you really think that's the best way to get someone to commit?"_

_She was silent._

That was when the truth struck. She couldn't remember why she fell in love with him again. Perhaps, it was because she never really did.


	4. Tipsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably read Trust if you're here. Please keep in mind that flashbacks are done from the alternate perspective, so it's still new content. Please be sure to read instead of skipping over. :)

Returning to Godric's Hollow was not on Hermione's shortlist of desires. Her stomach had been in knots for the entire afternoon as she tried to comprehend that her marriage to Ron was, perhaps, not as sacred as she once thought. The mere thought of facing him inspired her to work late into the night instead. Once she had signed the last document on her desk, she knew that she had nowhere to go other than home.

With a heavy sigh, she Apparated to 16 Gryffindor Drive. She knew that Ron was still awake as soon as the stinging scent of booze hit her nose.

"Where've you been?" Ron mumbled, with his attention on a small, violet box. He stuffed it full of glittery, turquoise tissue paper before chugging a glass of Ogden's and pumpkin juice. It was not the only one of its kind. Dozens of other colored boxes surrounded him, some on the floor and some on the countertop beside his bottle of firewhisky.

"Extra paperwork," Hermione replied. She kicked off her loafers and walked towards him. "What have you got there?"

"Trying to figure out how to package this new witches' line."

Hermione nodded, slowly. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had new lines every month, but rarely was Ron allowed to make any marketing decisions. "George is letting you?"

He glared at her. "Why wouldn't he?"

"No reason."

She sat on the barstool beside him, aching to feel something for the man that she married. Her nose crinkled as his unique odor assaulted her olfactory system. Leaning away from him, she tried to see what product he was attempting to package.

"I'm tryin' to work, Hermione," he growled.

Sadly, she stepped down from the barstool and leaned against the counter. The air was thick with tension between the two of them.

"So what's in the witches' line?" she finally asked, hoping that he bought into her feigned interest. "Maybe I can help."

"Dunno. George just sent me with some bottles with some gunk in 'em and told me to find packaging for 'em."

Hermione nodded. "You went to the shop then?"

Ron appeared to be suspicious. "For a little while. Why?"

"No reason," Hermione said again. In reality, she was embarrassed that her husband had been in public smelling so strongly of body odor and alcohol. If the _Daily Prophet_ had seen him in such a state, they would have printed more articles than she could count. "So did you see the _Prophet_ then?"

He shook his head and took another long drink of firewhisky and pumpkin juice.

"Well, they wrote about me. A pretty nasty hit piece," she confessed. "I have a copy if you want to read it later. They basically claim that I blew off the Japanese Minister for Magic yesterday. Can you believe it?"

Ron didn't respond. Instead, he fumbled with a green box and yellow tissue paper. Making a face, he threw it on the floor and reached for a pink box instead.

"Did you hear what I said?" Hermione inquired, raising her voice.

"Yeah, the _Prophet_ wrote about you. Very nice, dear. Hey, could you hand me the orange one from by your feet?" He held out his hand, still not meeting her eyes.

Taken aback, Hermione threw the orange box at him and stormed out of the room. He called after her, asking what he had done wrong, but it was too late. She stepped inside of her study and slammed the door before collapsing into her desk chair.

Marrying Ron had once seemed like a reasonable decision. She acknowledged that it wasn't a _perfect_ decision, but she was convinced that she was doing what was right for both of them. They had known each other for so many years, loving one another at different times. Refusing his proposal wasn't an option. They had fought for each other for too long.

Suddenly, she felt like she had to vomit. Sobbing quietly, she hugged her knees and rocked back and forth. Never had she been more heartsick for the man that she thought she loved. He was still alive, still there every night when she was finished with work. Yet, he wasn't present. She could hardly speak five words to him without an argument ensuing. She felt sorry for herself for a long while, twenty years worth of loneliness and regret drowning her. The framed photographs on her desk were a mockery, only reminding her of the lie that she had spent two decades building. Her photograph smiled back at her, Ron's arms around her waist.

The bittersweet memory sparked an idea. Eager to prove herself wrong, she stood up and started rifling through one of the modest bookshelves in her small study. The shelves contained mostly textbooks and novels written by Muggles, but towards the bottom, there was a dusty photo album. That was where she would find her answers. That was where she would find her love for her husband.

Hermione pulled out the leather album and quickly went back to her desk, opening it to the first page. The photographs had once been organized, but her children had gone through it, leaving it completely out of order.

There was photograph after photograph of their family scattered throughout: she, Ron, and the children. They all stood close together, smiling, mostly posing for the annual traditional holiday picture. Behind them, there was always a tall Christmas tree decorated in red and gold. She sighed. The pictures brought her simultaneous elation and sorrow. Their children were growing, and whenever they were gone to school, the Granger-Weasley home was hollow and joyless.

There were several photos of the children too, mostly baby pictures. They wriggled around in their diapers, sucking on their thumbs and kicking their chubby legs. Hermione smiled. It had been a long time since they were so small. Reluctantly, she flipped through more pages. Anger filled her when she reached the photos of their wedding day, peppered between images of George and Angelina's engagement party and their nieces and nephews. She moved past those photo sleeves as quickly as she could.

Then, there was a picture of her, Ron, and Harry. They were young and laughing, ecstatic to have found such great friends in one another. She closed her eyes. Her life had been so different back then.

After a few more pages, she realized she was at the end of the album. It was only half-full. Their family did not take many photographs, especially since reporters seemed to do that for them most of their lives. Sadly, she closed the cover and put her face in her hands for several moments, reeling from her gut-wrenching revelation.

Defeated, she picked the album back up and walked towards her bookshelf, hoping to shelve it and not look at it again for as long as she could manage. It was too painful.

She was nearly there when her foot caught the corner of the rug, knocking her off-balance. Immediately, the witch tumbled onto the ground, falling hard on her left arm. The album flew into the air, pictures separating from the sleeves and scattering all over the hardwood floor in an unsightly mess. Groaning, she rubbed her arm and got to her knees.

She collected all of the pictures, trying her best not to look at them. Then, among the pile of her snoring, sleeping babies, she noticed a photograph that she hadn't seen. It was black-and-white, cut out from a newspaper. In it, she sat not with Ron, Harry, or her children, but with Draco Malfoy.

She had forgotten she kept the photo, as she must have tucked it towards the back. Only once had she looked at it since she was a teenager.

_"Who is this, Mummy?" Hugo had asked, pointing at the photograph._

_A sad smile crept onto her face. "Oh, just an old schoolmate."_

Her heart pounding, she reached for the picture. The old paper felt weak in her hands, so she carefully went back to her desk and placed it there.

Emotions shook her to her core. The memory was so long ago, yet it felt so recent.

_The Hog's Head Inn was quiet, as usual. Knavish witches and wizards sat at the bar, ordering glasses of firewhisky and the occasional beer. They stared at the giggling group of three. The young magical folk seemingly did not belong._

_"…a better potion to get rid of Wrackspurts. I can't seem to get them away from Neville!" Luna complained. "I wonder if there's anyone working on that."_

_Hermione and Neville exchanged concerned looks. "I'm sure someone has thought of it," Hermione fibbed. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go to the restroom."_

_She stumbled from her chair to the bathroom, her buzz beginning to give her legs a bit of a wobble. The bathroom in the Hog's Head was notoriously filthy, so she quickly waved her wand before sitting on the toilet. She let out a sigh of relief as she urinated for what seemed like an eternity. Once she was finished, she scrubbed her hands under the faucet and staggered back to their table._

_She looked around. Luna and Neville were not at the table where she had left them. In fact, they were nowhere in sight. "Neville!" she shouted, anxiously. "Luna!"_

_Nobody responded._

_"Luna? Neville?" she questioned, less loudly._

_"They left," Aberforth grunted. "Something about Wrackspurts."_

_"Luna," Hermione groaned, carefully walking towards the bar. She sat on a barstool. "Firewhisky, please."_

_Aberforth nodded and poured her a glass._

_She chugged the hard drink, making a face as it hit her tongue and the heat ran down into her belly. To her left, there was a shifty-eyed wizard with a thick, scraggly beard and a green hat._

_"Nothin' quite like a witch that can handle 'er drink," he growled, baring his broken teeth._

_Hermione gave him a look of disgust and scooted her barstool away from him. Aberforth slipped into the back before she could alert him of the man's drunken state._

_"Oh c'mon! I'll buy ya another," the man offered._

_"N-no thank you," she stammered. "I mean no offense, but my mother taught me not to take drinks from strangers."_

_Frowning, the man touched her thigh. "Listen, Mudblood, I'm tryin' 'o be a nice guy here, but you're makin' it difficult."_

_Suddenly, a cold voice intervened. "I believe she said no thank you."_

_Hermione looked up to see the stern, grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. His face was distorted in revulsion, his hand on his wand._

_The man's eyes widened. "Mr. Malfoy! I was—I was only bein' a gentleman... I don't want no trouble..."_

_"Then you best leave," Draco sneered._

_Without a word, the man hurried out of the inn without paying his tab. The door closed behind him and whispers filled the few tables in the room._

_"I had it under control," Hermione muttered._

_"Did you?" Draco asked. "It didn't look very under control to me—unless you've started spending your nights with grimy old men instead of Weasley."_

_Hermione blushed, furiously. "I've never spent the night with Ron."_

_Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Good to know. May I sit?"_

_Hermione gestured the then-empty barstool. "It's hardly my place to deny you service."_

_He sat down, not making eye contact with her. "I saw Loony and Longbottom left. Interesting company you keep, Granger."_

_She glared at him. "Her name is_ Luna _, and they're lovely. They just had to leave."_

_Aberforth emerged from the back, narrowing his eyes as he saw Draco with Hermione. It was not every day that he saw a war hero sitting idly with a Death Eater._

_"Yes, so I heard. Longbottom had a nasty case of the Wrackspurts. Pity." He tapped the bar. "I'll take what this one's having."_

_Aberforth poured a glass of firewhisky and slid it towards him, suspicion in his gaze. He quickly gave Hermione a look to let her know that he would intervene if needed._

_"So where are_ your _friends?" Hermione jeered._

_Draco looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "No need to mock me. We both know I don't have any friends."_

_She almost felt guilty, but not guilty enough to apologize to him. Instead, she decided not to respond at all. There was a long silence that followed and she was not brave enough to end it._

_"Never a night with Weasley, then." He finally broke the awkward air, a smug expression plastered on his face. "Somehow that surprises me."_

_"Why?" Hermione asked, leering at him. "I'm not easy, if that's what you're implying."_

_He chuckled, swirling the firewhisky in his glass. "I just thought you two seemed rather attached."_

_She didn't felt like explaining her and Ron's romantic history to Draco Malfoy. It was complex enough that she hardly understood it herself. Just that morning had she escaped from her depression from their failed opportunity at love. She certainly was not going to let the Slytherin boy have the satisfaction of making her sad again._

_"Ron and I are friends."_

_Draco read her expression and nodded. "Only friends, then."_

_A dreadfully awkward silence followed._

_Finally, Draco asked, "So how have you been?"_

_"How have I_ been? _" she repeated, slowly. "Why are you asking me that?"_

_"Well, Granger, in the civilized world, it's a common courtesy to ask."_

_She glared and finished her drink. "So suddenly you're an expert on the civilized world."_

_He was quiet for a moment, his expression pained._

_"Surely things are better than they were before, though. I mean, back when he was...around."_

_Hermione clenched her jaw. "They are, I suppose." She knocked on the bar, keen to binge drink away her pain, her confusion, and most of all, her new curiosity. "Aberforth, may I have another, please?"_

_Draco downed his glass. "Another for me as well, thank you."_

_Aberforth looked at each of them, sliding drinks their way. Hermione could tell that he was considering throwing them both out before they started a scene. It was clear that they still had animosity between them._

_"So is this what you do during Hogsmeade weekends?" she asked. "Come drink firewhisky by yourself?"_

_"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm actually_ _not_ _by myself," he retorted._

_Hermione was taken aback. She finished her glass of Ogden's and asked for another, trying to recollect her thoughts. Never did she think she would be drinking with Draco Malfoy, but the evening had taken a rather bizarre turn. As much as she wanted to be upset about it, she couldn't be. He hadn't done anything wrong._

_They said nothing to one another for a long while, tossing back drinks, awkwardly listening to the white noise of chattering witches and wizards. Hermione chewed on her thoughts._

_"Why did you stand up for me?" she finally inquired. "You didn't have to do that."_

_Draco ran his tongue across his teeth and throated the glass of firewhisky in his hand. "My mother taught me to keep my fellow man in line when it comes to how they treat women. If he didn't learn his lesson then, he would've gone on to try it on someone else." He patted the bar, ordering another. "It was better to run him off before he caused more trouble."_

_"Well, I appreciate it."_

_They were quiet again before Hermione finally confessed, "I didn't even see you in here." The small sip that she took tasted worse than when she drank it quickly. "Where were you?"_

_"In the corner. I've developed superb hiding skills this year, if you hadn't noticed."_

_Hermione laughed. "I did notice, actually." She took another sip and regarded the few hags and grimy wizards. "There really isn't anyone here to hide from, though. Rather silly to be lurking in dark corners."_

_"Easy for you to say. You don't have the Ministry trying to find every reason to put you in Azkaban or McGonagall itching to expel you."_

_"Don't be so dramatic. They can't put you in Azkaban."_

_He took a drink. "The Ministry believes I'm reformed just about as much as you do. A single misstep and they'll gladly put me behind bars."_

_Hermione was quiet. She did not know how to tell her evening savior that she didn't trust him. Strangely enough, she wasn't even sure if she would be telling the truth. If studying together taught her anything about Draco Malfoy, it was that he wasn't as easy to read as she once thought he was._

_"Your silence speaks volumes, Granger," he said, coldly._

_"Well—"_

_"Just leave it," he spat. He finished his drink and tapped the bar again._

_Aberforth slid a full glass in front of him, his expression stern. The caramel-colored liquid sloshed onto the bar._

_"Draco, slow down—"_

_He locked eyes with her. "Why should I?"_

_"Well, I—never mind." She tossed back her drink before she made a fool of herself. Her head spun as the drunkenness took its toll on her and she felt her inhibitions slip through her fingers. Drinking heavily was not something she often did, but she felt some level of competition between the two of them. It seemed important to drink just as much as he did._

_"I could drink myself to death and no one would care." He downed his firewhisky and pounded his knuckles on the bar once more._

_"That's rubbish and you know it, Malfoy."_

_"Is it?"_

_"Nobody wants you dead. That's just crude."_

_"Oh, I'll bet there are plenty of people in the Ministry that would disagree."_

_Hermione watched him, thoughtfully. She thought carefully about the next thing she was going to say. "Your aunt tortured me, you know," she finally whispered._

_"All the more reason for my bloodline to come to an end as far as you and your little friends are concerned, isn't it?" he growled._

_Hermione shook her head. "Your aunt tortured me and—and y-you watched. You watched every horrible, sickening second of it."_

_"You aren't exactly defending your point, Granger," he mumbled. "If I were in your shoes, I'd blast the Killing Curse at me right now. Suppose I should keep my hand on my wand in case you decide to take me up on that."_

_"Draco, you aren't_ listening _to me," Hermione slurred, struggling to make her point in her heavily inebriated state. "Your family has done despicable things to me, to the people I care about. But the war is over and here we are, drinking firewhisky. Maybe it's time to move on, you know?"_

_He gave her a dark look. "I don't claim to be a good person, Granger, but what Bellatrix did was vile."_

_"Even though I'm just a Mudblood?" she asked, curiously._

_"Nobody deserves to be tortured. I suspect you and I both learned that the hard way._ _"_

_Hermione's eyelids fluttered, drunkenly. "I'm drunk and I should hate you, Malfoy. Stop giving me reasons not to."_

_"Don't worry. You'll hate me tomorrow," he promised._

_"You know what I think? I think—hmm. Maybe it's not my place to say."_

_He gave her a quizzical glance. "Tell me."_

_"Well, I don't think you're as bad as you let on."_

_Draco strengthened his grip on his glass. "You don't know what I'm capable of, Granger. You have no idea what I've done."_

_Hermione pushed her hair behind her ear. "Perhaps not, but I do know you're sitting by a Mudblood—_ by choice _."_

_A small chuckle fell from his lips. "I suppose that's true."_

_She studied his deep, grey eyes. She thought for a long time, deciding whether she should echo the voice that had been in her head. Finally, she decided that they both needed to hear it. "If we don't let the war end, it never will, you know."_

_"Well, isn't that profound," he muttered, rolling his eyes._

_"But it's the_ truth _," she insisted, slapping the top of the bar. "As long as we let it rule the way we live our lives, we might as well still be fighting. I don't know about you, but I'm_ sick _of fighting."_

_Her words were followed by a long silence as Draco contemplated what she had said._

_"Why didn't you leave the pub as soon as you saw me?"_

_Red-faced and heavily inebriated, Hermione blew her hair out of her face. "I dunno. We could be getting along worse, lately, right? And I guess I don't have friends either. Not_ real _friends, considering they just ditched me over some bloody Wrackspurts... Well, there's Ginny but lately, our conversations are rather limited to flower arrangements and dessert trays_ _..._ _It's all a bit pathetic, really."_

_Draco snorted. "What about Potter and Weasley?_ _And you mustn't forget your friends at the_ Prophet _. There wasn't a day in summer that I could read so much as the Quidditch column_ _without seeing your mugs."_

_"I don't exactly have tea with Berdus Bickwalt or Yaven Dodd after they find a hundred different ways to ask me what it was like to be Muggle-born during the war._ _" She paused. "And I don't really talk to Harry and Ron anymore, either. Not much, anyway._ _"_

_"Is that right?"_

_"Ron and I haven't spoken since I left. We were seeing each other, I suppose, over summer, so I think it's all a bit confusing for him," she sighed, resting her face in the palm of her hand. She would not usually talk to Draco Malfoy about such personal matters, but far too much firewhisky had clouded her judgment. "I think I'm over it, though. We were just being silly, if I think about it."_

_Draco Malfoy smirked, seizing his chance at lighthearted conversation. "So you weren't spending nights with him but you_ wanted _to."_

_Hermione held her breath. "I did not!"_

_"I'll take your word for it," he teased, an amused expression on his pale lips. He rapped on the bar again._

_"It's the_ truth! _" Hermione laughed, her face bright crimson. "I mean—I guess I liked him but—well, things change. He didn't come back to school and he's an Auror now and I honestly think it's better for the both of us. He needed to learn how to get by in life without me doing his homework for him."_

_"So_ that's _how Weasel was passing classes."_

_"I'd rather not talk any more about him. What about you, though? You never seemed like the type to care about your N.E.W.T. marks, but all of a sudden you're back at Hogwarts and you're actually trying for once. Why?"_ _She was eager to change the subject. After spending four months healing from the way Ron mistreated her, she did not want to discuss him with Draco Malfoy, of all people._

_"Where else was I going to go? Death Eaters want me dead. The rest of the Wizarding world wants me in Azkaban. Hiding away at school for a year seemed like the easiest thing to do."_

_She ran her fingertips around the rim of her glass. "That's a bit sad."_

_Draco sucked on his teeth. "I don't want your pity."_

_"It's not that. I just—I don't know..."_

_He eyed her. "I shouldn't have sat here."_

_If she were sober, perhaps she would have agreed. Alas, she was not, and she was rather enjoying company that didn't mention Nargles every few seconds._

_"Don't do that."_

_"Do what?"_

_"Act like you're the Dark Lord himself! It's exhausting, honestly."_

_"I may not be him, but I may as well be."_

_"_ _If you're such a brute, why didn't you just let that creep have his way with me?" she asked._

_Draco frowned. "You're drunk."_

_"Maybe so," she laughed, locking eyes with him. Suddenly, her voice was much more serious. "But you intervened for a reason. A lesser wizard wouldn't have done as much."_

_He shifted in place, his body language thick with discomfort._

_"You know, if Ron saw you with me he'd call you a ferret and hex you," she giggled._

_"Thought you didn't want to discuss Weasley," he reminded her, pompously._

_"I don't! I just—I think I'm just a bit tipsy," she admitted, resting her face in her hand. The rest of her drink disappeared down her gullet and she clacked her fingernails against the bar. Another drink slid her way._

_"So it seems," he mumbled, a small smile on his lips._

_Before she knew it, she had fallen off her stool with a yelp. Wide-eyed, Draco helped her back to a standing position. Her legs wobbled and suddenly she could not control her wild laughter. Sighing, he heaved her back onto the barstool and took the drink from in front of her._

_"We ought to get you back to the castle."_

_"Th-thank you. I almost fell flat on my face." The bushy-haired girl could not stop laughing._

_Amused, Draco snickered and held his hand against her arm, helping her catch her balance. "How much did you drink before I joined you?"_

_"Not much! Really! I just—I'm not much of a drinker..." The brunette could not stop giggling. "I'm more of a—" She hiccupped, choking on her laughter. "—butterbeer type."_

_Draco opened his mouth to respond, yet he was interrupted by the flash of a camera. He blinked several times, blinded from the light._

_"Of_ course _someone would be—" She hiccupped again in between laughs. "—taking pictures of us," Hermione cackled and coiled her arm around him, holding her index and middle finger above his head. "Pose, Draco. We might as well give them a show."_

_The camera flashed several more times and the man holding it rushed out of the inn._

_"What the hell was that?" Draco asked, still seeing spots._

_Hermione nearly fell again. He caught her in his arms as she giggled, uncontrollably. "Prob'ly the_ Prophet _. Who cares? They're all a bunch of_ _—" She stopped, midthought, and hiccupped. "Malfoy_ _—no, Malfoy, listen to me!" She pawed at his face like a needy toddler. "Thank you."_

_"For?"_

_Still grabbing his face rather roughly, she slurred, "Well, firstly, for sending away that terrible man. That and—well, honestly, I had fun." Another hiccup escaped her throat as she seized the drink from the bar, to Draco's protest, and downed it. "I don't think I've been able to have fun since, well, you know. It's been a long time."_

_The blond held his arm around her, helping her stand. Tears were in her eyes as she continued to drunkenly laugh at nothing in particular. Then, her face froze. The final elixir had done her in. It was clear that she was far too inebriated to walk back alone. Draco_ _motioned Aberforth over and pointed to both himself and Hermione before dropping several Galleons on the bar._

_Aberforth leered at him. "If I hear that girl didn't get home safe, I'll invent a fourth Unforgivable Curse just for you. Mark my words."_

_Draco nodded and steadied her as they stepped out of the inn. Hermione groaned, her stomach rolling with regret. "I drank too much."_

_"Clearly."_

Hermione stared at the picture, chewing on her nails. Their friendship was strange, and generally condemned by the public, yet it was the first time that year that she felt truly happy. Just the day before she saw him, she had still been mourning her lost chance with Ron. After an evening with the blond wizard, wanting Ron seemed almost silly.

There was a knock at her study door. Scared, she jumped and slid the picture underneath a book on her desk.

"Y-yes?" she stammered, her face pink.

"I'm hungry!" Ron shouted through the door. "Can you make something since I've been working all day?"

Hermione gritted her teeth.


	5. Flighty

Cameras flashed as the crowd hurled questions, scribbling notes with their quills and ink. It was one of the busiest press conferences that Hermione had ever held since becoming Minister for Magic, and she had walked onto the stage feeling quite nervous. A particularly squirrelly fellow in blue robes raised his quill and pointed it towards her.

"Yes, the fellow with the quill," Gob, one of Hermione's advisors, said.

The man looked down at his notes. "So, Minister, your book is about successful witches of the Wizengamot. Why aren't any of your colleagues in the book? Why throw away such a unique opportunity?"

"Great question!" Hermione exclaimed, taking his words in stride. "If I'm being honest, I _did_ think about it, but it was mostly a historical book about the _first_ witches of the Wizengamot. I'm hoping to work on a follow-up about important women of later generations. No title yet or anything, but I'd like to start working on it sometime next year."

The man nodded, jotting down her answer. Everyone in the crowd seemed to make sense of it and relief washed over Hermione. After the hit piece that the _Daily Prophet_ released, she expected her press conference to go rather poorly. Fortunately for her, her book had sold better than any other book on the market, making it the most important topic of the day.

"Minister, you've released some translations before, but this was the first book that you actually wrote. Can I ask how it was to write an entire book while juggling your responsibilities to the Ministry?" a witch with burgundy lipstick asked.

Hermione laughed. "I will admit, it was difficult, but I managed to find the time."

The witch smiled. "You must be very proud."

Gob pointed at another witch further in the back. She pushed her way to the front and tilted her head. "I don't mean to get off track here, but I have a source that claims you weren't with the Japanese Minister for Magic on November thirtieth like the _Daily Prophet_ claimed. Can you confirm that?"

Suddenly, Hermione felt her heart in her throat. She eyed Gob, looking for advice, but he merely shrugged at her, expecting her to answer honestly. "Well, no. I wasn't with the Japanese Minister for Magic."

"Follow-up question, Minister. So who _were_ you with?"

Droplets of sweat formed at her brow. She cleared her throat. "Um, I was with a friend—someone I haven't seen in a very long time." Her eyes scanned the audience, trying to read their thoughts. That was when her heart stopped.

Draco Malfoy was standing all the way in the back. His gaunt face and white-blonde hair were unmistakable. He looked so much like he had when they were young, only earning a handful of crow's feet and light laugh lines. She would have recognized that face from a mile away.

The witch smirked. "My source says that old friend was Draco Malfoy, known Death Eater. Is that so, Minister?"

Hermione's stomach was in knots. She remembered the tired waitress at the Leaky Cauldron staring at the two of them as though they were a pile of Galleons. The crowd stared at her, mouths open, each of them itching to pen the story of the Minister meeting with a Death Eater. The world was spinning. The faces were out of focus—all except one.

Draco stared at her from afar, his hands behind his back and his grey eyes hopeful, but expectant of nothing. She remembered when she thought those eyes looked so lifeless. Then one day, she realized she had been blind.

_Hermione groaned as she slathered jam on her morning toast. She had drunk far too much during the previous evening, resulting in a rather dreadful hangover. Each bite she took was too loud. She rubbed her temples and took a long drink of water, silently begging for relief._

_Though Draco Malfoy had expected her to forget about their drunken conversation, she hadn't. In fact, she spent most of her morning thinking about it. While it certainly did not lead to her headache subsiding, it did make her wonder if they could make amends. The boy had tortured her for years, calling her the foulest names and refusing to intervene when his dreadful aunt tortured her. There was so much bad blood between them. Yet, he seemed like he had changed. Perhaps, the end of the war could mean the end of their feud._

_As though he knew she had been thinking about him, he walked into the Great Hall, running his hands through his hair. He kept his head down until he reached the Slytherin table. Curiously, she watched him as he sat at the end furthest away from anyone else. The table full of Slytherin students crinkled their noses as soon as they saw him._

_Fixated on him, she chewed on her toast. She was just as alone at her table as he was._

_He didn't eat any food. Instead, he chugged a glass of water. As he set it down, he looked up, meeting her eyes. They were tired from the previous evening, but they were also sorrowful and apologetic. She knew that he would never tell her that he was sorry. Only his eyes, in that exact moment, would tell her everything that she wanted to hear. She smiled and waggled her fingers at him. He didn't smile, nor did he wave back, but his eyes told her all that she needed to know._

_Draco Malfoy was not the monster he pretended to be._

She wondered how long she had been lost in her memory. The crowd was staring at her, eager to hear her answer.

She met Draco's eyes, just like she had met his eyes in the Great Hall that day.

"I was with Draco Malfoy. We had lunch. He ate the Leaky House Soup and I had steak and kidney pie," Hermione announced. "I won't take any more questions."

With that, she stepped away from the podium and dipped behind the curtains of the makeshift stage. Gob apologized to the press and chased after her, calling her name. She ignored him, quickening her step as she walked down the stairs and made her way down Diagon Alley. She waved her wand, swapping her high heels for sneakers and her business robes for cheap denim jeans and a sweater.

"Minister!" Gob yelled. "Minister, we have to sort this out! This is going to look terrible!"

She ignored his words and rushed into Flourish and Blotts. The manager opened his mouth to greet her, but she shook her head and hissed, "Nobody is to know that I'm here. _Nobody_."

The manager nodded in agreement and watched her slip behind one of the many bookshelves. Finally alone, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She knew that the _Daily Prophet_ and every other publication worth its salt would run with the little information that she gave them. Perhaps, what she said was shortsighted. Nevertheless, she did what felt right. She couldn't make a habit out of breaking Draco's trust. She had worked too hard to earn it.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his.

Suddenly, she heard the door of Flourish and Blotts open. Gob had been following her, but she was certain that he had not seen her enter the store. Then, she heard a voice that she recognized; it certainly did not belong to her public relations advisor.

"Is the Minister for Magic in here?" a cool, yet breathy voice inquired.

The manager did not respond. She heard the voice growl and then his careful, elegant footsteps. Within seconds, he was looming over her, staring at her with those deep, grey eyes.

"Draco," she acknowledged with a gulp.

"I knew you'd be here. You have no idea how stupid that was—"

"Don't think I don't know how stupid it was," she hissed, cutting him off. "If it were fifteen years ago, I would've resigned by now."

He was still staring at her, his dark eyes stormy and omniscient. "My question is: why?"

"It was the truth," she said in a small voice. "I'm not supposed to lie to the public."

"But you'll lie to me? I don't think you were worried about the public at all. I think you saw me and you panicked, Granger. I _know_ you."

Hermione drew in a deep breath and pushed past him. "Draco, it's not the best time." She did not turn back as she weaved around the bookshelves and walked out of the store. Draco tailed her, calling after her. She ignored him and hurriedly made her way towards Gringotts.

"Merlin, stop all the running! I just want to talk!" he shouted, chasing after her.

She did not respond. Instead, she ran as quickly as she could, her feet aching as they pounded the cobblestone street. With her heart pumping, she slipped into an alley beside Gringotts, looking around for anyone that may have seen her. Once she believed she was safe, she leaned against the brick wall, her chest heaving up and down as she caught her breath. Even if nobody had seen her, Draco was nearby.

Panic set in when she saw him in the bookstore. She was not entirely sure why she ran away from him, but Draco had a way of making her vulnerable when she preferred not to be.

"Hermione," he breathed, stepping into the alley. "Hermione, please, just talk to me."

She took a deep breath and grabbed her wand, ready to Apparate. "Draco, I-I don't know if I can do that."

He closed his eyes and stepped closer to her. "If you can't do it now, meet me for lunch again."

Nervously, she looked around. "Are we alone?"

He nodded. "Nobody followed me. The entire alley was shut down for your press conference. I had to bribe an Auror to get in."

She put her wand back in her pocket and ran her fingers through her hair. "Why did you show up today—and who took your bribe? I'll have them fired faster than they can say Merlin."

"Relax. I used the Imperius Curse."

"I could have you arrested for that."

"True," he replied, airily.

She sighed. "So why did you come? Why all the trouble?"

He leaned against the brick, alley wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the dirty cobblestone. Hermione could not stop thinking about how young he looked. Harry and Ron had not aged so gracefully. If she had not known him, she would have thought him to be in his late twenties. It made it much harder to forget about their teenage memories. He was an enigma of his former self.

"You know exactly why."

"We _can't_ , Draco," she insisted, crossing her arms. "I'm a _married_ woman."

He rolled his eyes. "We both know that Weasley is a loser."

Hermione inhaled sharply. "He may be a loser, but we're still married." She sat down beside him. "Draco, we aren't kids anymore."

Boldly, he ran his long, pale fingers along the traces of her hand. It sent shivers down her spine. "I won't ask you for anything you don't want to give."

She narrowed her eyes and yanked her hand away from his. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said," he sighed. "I could use a friend. A friend I could ask a favor of when the times comes."

Hermione tried to comprehend the words. "A favor."

"Nothing of _that_ sort," he assured her. "I suspect it will be a while before it's time."

She watched him, carefully. Blaming his advances on grief was too simple. He had said himself that they were on the brink of divorce before she became ill. She could see it in his movements. It was a chance he wanted to take well before Astoria passed away. If she had been cured, he still would be standing before his teenage flame.

When they were children, Draco had been hard to read. For most, he still was. His eyes were often cold and calculating, his face pulled into a sneer, and his posture perfect and tall. He had even cut off the silly ponytail that he had the last time that she had seen him, returning to his more refined adolescent self. Witches and wizards had long been intimidated by the Malfoy family, and Draco was no exception. Alas, Hermione understood him. She could see his intentions in his actions, his desires in his eyes, and even his determination in his gait. He wanted something from her that she had once given him, but she didn't know if she could give it to him again.

"I'm not sure I can give you what you _actually_ want, Draco," she said, slowly.

He ignored her. "Have lunch with me next Wednesday at our old spot."

"Will you give me details about this _favor_ if I do?"

"This isn't a business meeting. Just another lunch between friends."

Hermione wrung her hands. She knew the spot that he meant, and she knew that it would be private. Still, she did not know if she was capable of making the best decisions around him, nor could he around her. "I don't think so."

With a sigh, he stood. "Well, if you change your mind, I'll see you then."

She did not respond, but she found herself watching him as he left the alley. He didn't look back at her, but she knew that he wanted to. She felt it.

Dejectedly, she pulled her knees to her chest. She ached for him as soon as he was gone, and she knew that he ached for her. It was the exact reason that she could not see him again. Guilt assailed her as she thought of poor Astoria, dying in their marital bed. It only pained her more when she thought of Ron's jealous gaze when she mentioned Malfoy's name. Seeing him again was a sure path to destroying what was left of her home.

_"She's a home-wrecker! A hideous, shameless bloody home-wrecker!" Ginny had fumed, kicking over a dining room chair. "Did you see the way she was making eyes at Harry? That miserable, daft—"_

_Hermione put a hand on Ginny's arm. "Ginny, calm down. You know Harry would never."_

_"Of course he wouldn't!" Ginny screeched. "That doesn't mean that she's not just awful!"_

_Ginny picked up the chair and sat down. She rested her elbows on the table and clamped her hands together. They reddened from the force._

_"I mean, she was pretty terrible," Hermione laughed, sitting beside her, "but she isn't a home-wrecker. That would insinuate Harry's participation and you and I both know he would jump off a bridge before he did anything to hurt you or the kids."_

_"You're right," she grumbled. "I just get so mad. Women get so touchy-feely around him. The Chosen One and all that."_

_Hermione nodded. "I can only imagine."_

_"I mean, it has to be so easy for you and my brother. She'd have to be pretty desperate to want to deal with Ron." Ginny frowned. "Harry, he—well, he isn't a stranger to beautiful women trying to get into bed with him. I guess I just worry."_

_Hermione took her hand. "As long as you trust your husband, it shouldn't matter what other women think. I think you can trust Harry to make the right choices. I've known him for a really long time. He's not like that."_

_Ginny smiled. "I guess I never really thought about it that way."_

_"It's the only way to think about it, really."_

She sat in the alley for a long while, reflecting on the words that Ginny had spoken to her so long ago.

_"I mean, it has to be so easy for you and my brother."_

She only wished that it were true.


	6. Anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the prequel, Trust, please be sure to check it out!

Ministry advisors were livid, working overtime to draft a press release. Hermione Granger spent the remainder of her week being scolded, attending public relations trainings, and being bombarded by the press. After the long week, she wanted nothing more than to sit in her study and read a book, but unfortunately, she had Saturday plans.

Harry and Ginny were celebrating their anniversary, and as they usually did, they asked Hermione and Ron to accompany them to dinner for the evening. Typically, Hermione looked forward to the annual event, but after her press conference, she wanted nothing more than to be alone.

"Do we _have_ to go to this thing?" Ron scowled, wiping crumbs from his shirt.

"I don't want to go either, Ron," Hermione snapped, clasping her necklace, "but Ginny is your sister and Harry is our best friend so we need to support them."

Ron chewed on his Cauldron Cake, smacking his lips together. "I don't see why I need to be there for _their_ anniversary. Seems like something they should be spending alone, don't you think?"

Hermione fumbled with a ruby earring, trying to find the hole in her ear. "Ronald, if they want us to spend it with them, we're going to do that. That's what friends and family do."

"But it's their anniversary, innit? Christmas is just round the corner. They'll see us then."

Hermione glared at him. "Ron, we're _going_. Now are you going to get dressed or not?"

Frowning, Ron gestured his stained denim jeans and old hooded sweatshirt. "I _am_ dressed."

"Ron, you're _not_ wearing that," Hermione scolded, waving her wand. Her zipper magically shot upward. "Where are the dress robes I laid out for you? The black ones?" She fixed her floor-length dress. It fit her like a glove, hugging her hips and swallowing her legs. Once upon a time, Ron would have been enamored by her, but he hardly gave her a second glance.

"Dress robes?" he scoffed.

"Yes, Ron, dress robes. We're going to _Alohomora_ , not the Leaky bloody Cauldron," Hermione said, irate. "Go put on the robes so we can leave."

With an annoyed sigh, Ron stood up from the sofa and trudged to their bedroom. From down the hallway, Hermione heard him holler, "These are the itchy ones!"

"They're _all_ the itchy ones," Hermione yelled back, sliding into a pair of red slingback pumps. "Just put them on, for Merlin's sake!"

Ron cursed to himself as he changed into the silk dress robes. He was tired of expensive restaurants and galas. He wanted to work on his inventions, drink, and stay home. After years of witnessing Hermione's ambitions, he was no longer sure that he could live the life he wanted as long as she was a part of it.

* * *

Alohomora was the most expensive restaurant in Diagon Alley. It opened several years after the war, taking advantage of the upswing in the magical economy, attracting only the richest witches and wizards. Hermione had been there a number of times, mostly to schmooze international ambassadors. Ron, however, did all he could to avoid such places.

"It smells in here," Ron hissed, following Hermione inside of the dark restaurant.

"It does not, Ron. Be quiet," Hermione hissed back.

Candles hovered above tables, highlighting grinning faces as they took small bites of the best magical cuisine in England. The ceiling was high, draped with black curtains and a spell that made the air glimmer. They wove through several chattering tables before reaching a smiling hostess. "Minister," she said, kindly, "we have been expecting you. Follow me, _s'il vous plaît._ "

Hermione followed the hostess, waving at everyone that pointed at her in awe. Ron tailed behind her, complaining under his breath.

"Mrs. Granger, Mr. Weasley," the hostess said, gesturing a large table in the back corner. Ginny and Harry were already sat there, their noses deep in the menu. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter."

Ginny and Harry looked up, quickly sliding out of the booth to hug Hermione and Ron. The two of them had dressed well, adorned in red with tasteful black and gold embroidery. Hermione smiled and kissed their cheeks, sitting down beside Ron after their quick greeting.

"Happy anniversary," she said. "What is this? Fifty years?"

Ginny laughed. "Might as well be."

The hostess loomed over their table for a moment. "Your waiter will be right with you. Thank you for dining with us today, Mr. Potter, Minister."

"Thank you," Ginny replied, her voice cold.

The hostess sauntered back to her podium and Ginny scoffed.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, frowning.

Ginny ignored him. "Hermione, did you hear her? I got a reservation at this bloody place because it's _our_ anniversary dinner, and she has the audacity to thank you and Harry but not me."

Hermione sighed and patted Ginny's hand, consolingly. "These sort of places can be like that. I'm sorry, Ginny."

"It's fine," Ginny spat. "She didn't look like much of a Quidditch fan. She probably just didn't recognize me. Anyway, I'm sure you have bigger things to worry about what with your press conference and all. I saw the _Prophet_ article about it."

Ron scowled. "Ginny, why'd you have to bring _that_ up? She hasn't shut up about it in _days_."

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. "Excuse me, Ron, but we were talking." She turned back to Hermione. "So? What was that all about? Seems like it was blown out of proportion."

"It was, I just—" she stopped, as the waiter stopped by their table.

"Hello, my name is Gabriel. I'll be your waiter tonight. May I get you something to drink?" he asked, his hands behind his back.

"Yes, the Bordeaux please," Ginny replied. She glanced over the menu at Hermione and Ron. "For the table?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, that sounds lovely. I think I'm actually ready to order, if anyone else is?"

"Yes, I think we're ready," Harry replied, turning to Ginny for confirmation. "Ron?"

Ron made a face, examining the menu. "I dunno. You lot order first. Come back to me."

"Perfect. For you, Minister?" the waiter asked.

"I think I'll start with the soup du poisson. For the main course, the ratatouille, and definitely the chocolate soufflé for dessert." Hermione said, passing the menu back to the waiter with a smile.

He nodded and pressed his wand to her menu items, casting the order back to the kitchen where it would be prepared by world-class French chefs. "And for you, Madame?"

Ginny smiled and placed her order. Harry quickly followed.

"And for you, Monsieur Weasley?" Gabriel asked, patiently.

Ron was still staring down the menu, his elbows planted on the table, unsure what most of the dishes were. He pointed to an item and asked, "Is that slugs?"

Gabriel peered at the place where he was pointing and shook his head. "No, sir. That is duck breast with potatoes."

Hermione put her face in her hands, embarrassed by her crass, uncultured husband.

"So how much do I get?" he asked, making a small circle with his hands. "This much? Or a big portion?" He expanded the hand circle to the size of a large platter.

"It is a small portion, and you receive your choice of soup and a dessert as well," Gabriel replied. "I recommend the soupe à l'oignon and the tarte tatin or the chocolate soufflé."

Ron did not look convinced, but after Hermione kicked his foot under the table, he said, "Yeah. I'll take that, I guess. The lung-one soup is fine. The one you mentioned."

"And for dessert?"

"The chocolate thing sounds good."

Gabriel bowed and sent the final order back to the kitchen, leaving their table to tend to the next. Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

"I can't bring you anywhere," she groaned.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Order something and then end up with bloody slugs? Them French folks are always eatin' slugs, and if you don't remember, I don't have the best of luck with that."

"They don't eat slugs, Ron," Hermione insisted. "They eat escargot, which is snail, and it is absolutely delicious."

"Oh, snails! So much better!" he said, sarcastically, throwing up his hands in faux surrender.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Okay, well, you ordered your food and none of it has slugs, so just relax."

Harry and Ginny exchanged awkward glances. They knew that Ron and Hermione had a tendency to argue, but they had never seen them do it so loudly in public.

"So, how are things at the shop?" Harry asked, trying to change the subject.

Ron shrugged. "I reckon it's fine. George has me pickin' out the packaging for a witches' line but it's not as easy as they make it look. You'd think pink, purple, put it in the bloody box and move on, but it's much more complicated than that."

Harry stared at him blankly. Ginny elbowed him and he finally replied, "Well, I suppose picking a label can be difficult."

Ron shook his head. "It's the damn colors! There's mauve, there's fuchsia, there's pumpkin—I don't know what women like nowadays!"

"Why don't you ask for Hermione's help?" Ginny inquired.

Hermione shook her head, wide-eyed. Unfortunately, Ron had already latched onto his sister's proposal.

"She suggested that," he growled, eyeing his wife.

Hermione cleared her throat. "So what about you, Ginny? How have you been?"

"I've been well," she sighed. "The _Prophet_ is still paying me plenty, but I have to say that my coworkers are truly vile. I can't stand going into the office, so I mostly work from home. It gets a bit lonely with Harry being gone all the time, but it sure beats listening to McGavel and Trunch talk about celebrity gossip."

"I can imagine," Hermione chuckled. "I've seen the downright rubbish they've been putting out. Might as well be _Witch Weekly_. Suppose it's been that way for a long time, though."

The waiter stopped by their table to leave them with a bottle of wine and four full glasses. He quickly disappeared again.

"Speaking of the _Prophet_ ," Ginny noted, "you never did explain what happened at that press conference."

"Oh damn it, Ginny!" Ron scowled, crossing his arms and leaning back. "You _had_ to bring it back up!"

"Ron, it's fine," Hermione said. She took a sip of the Bordeaux. "They published an article claiming that I walked out on the Japanese Minister for Magic, which is something I would absolutely _never_ do. That blew over, but a waitress at the Leaky Cauldron saw who I was really with and went to the papers with it. It got brought up at the press conference, the crowd didn't like the truth, and that was the end of it. It's all damage control now."

Ginny thoughtfully drank her wine. "And the truth was that you were having lunch with Draco Malfoy?"

The pure-blood wizard was not somebody that Hermione wanted to discuss, but she knew that Ginny would keep pressing if she dodged the question.

"Yes," Hermione replied, clearing her throat. "He wanted to congratulate me on my book. Hardly a crime."

"And talk about his dead wife all 'woe is me' and the like," Ron spat. "He probably killed her, the prat." He had already chugged his glass of wine and was pouring another.

"Ron, Astoria was cursed," Harry defended Malfoy. The two of them were far from friends, but they had developed a bond when their two sons went missing. Before that, they had learned to at least stay civil. After all, their children were quite close and would not be fair to deny them of friendship. "We were at the funeral. Malfoy was a mess."

Hermione's jaw stiffened and she felt an unwelcome surge of envy run through her. She knew that he, even if he and his wife were not getting along, had every right to be upset when she passed away. Astoria was the mother of his child. Still, for some unexplainable reason, the sour taste of jealousy ran down her throat.

"Doesn't make him any less of a prat," Ron grumbled, "and it doesn't excuse him making passes at my wife."

"He was just looking for someone to talk to," Hermione insisted. "And a copy of my book."

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Why _you_ , though? Surely, he has friends for that kind of thing. Why not just congratulate you, get his damn book, and leave?"

"Because now that his Slytherin wench is gone, he wants to have a go at her!" Ron shouted, earning glances from other diners.

Hermione's face flushed. " _Ron!_ That's _enough!_ "

"Seems like a Malfoy thing, though, dunnit?" he pressed. "Get one in on a Mudblood and tell all his creepy little Death Eater pals all about it. Slick git."

"Ronald!" Hermione breathed, her face as red as her ruby earrings. "Stop it!"

"It _is_ a bit strange, though," Ginny noted. She sipped her wine. "Not that I think that Ron is right or anything, but I'd just watch out if I were you. We haven't seen much of him since Astoria died. He might be slipping back into old habits and you _are_ the Minister for Magic. There could be some kind of ulterior motive."

"I don't think it's strange. He wanted to buy a book and it was an opportunity to talk too," Hermione said, carefully, her ears still scarlet. "You forget: we _were_ friendly in school—towards the end anyway."

"You mean he cheated off you in Arithmancy," Ron grunted. "Was a right wanker to you every second up 'til then, though, wasn't he?"

"Well, he was very professional for those few months," she mumbled before nursing her wine. She had never told Ron the entire truth about her teenage relationship with Draco Malfoy. In fact, she never told anyone about it. It was far too easy to chalk up the images in the _Daily Prophet_ as out-of-context study sessions and celebrations for having received high marks. She was acutely aware of the three pairs of eyes on her. "What? He was."

Harry saw that Hermione was uncomfortable and decided it was time to change the topic again. "So, we caught Galbert Blacktree yesterday. He was hiding in north Scotland."

Hermione raised her brows. "Is that right? I hadn't heard anything about that."

Harry nodded. "Quite a chase. Could've used you, Ron."

"I'm not cut out to be an Auror," Ron mumbled. "Besides, I'm close to finishing a pretty awesome invention for the shop. Think I need to keep my eye on the prize."

Unconvinced, Harry asked, "Oh yeah? What's that?"

With her lips pursed, Hermione silently begged Ron not to embarrass her again. He had never learned how to behave at high-end establishments, despite the years of practice that she had given him during Ministry events.

"A dung bomb of sorts. Stronger than the ones you're used to," Ron said, grinning. He finished his second glass of wine with a loud belch and poured another. "It's not real dung, just a potion. I've been working on it for a while now. I reckon it'll fly off the shelves once I get the mix just right."

The waiter stopped by their table again, passing them each their first course. He asked them if they needed anything and vanished as quickly as he came.

"Doesn't George already have something like that?" Ginny pointed out.

Ron shook his head. "No, we used to but Gambol and Japes gave us some sort of legal notice to stop sellin' 'em. Guess they found out we basically copied their formula and stamped the Weasley name on it. Didn't like that much since we were basically runnin' 'em out of business. Now we only have a Stinking Butt Stinger. It just smells like dirty house-elf more than anything. This will be much better."

" _Ron!_ " Hermione scolded. " _That's offensive!_ "

Shoveling his mouth full of soup, Ron retorted, "What? You already set 'em free. Do we really need to lie and say they don't smell like rotten arse?"

"Ron, quit it," Ginny growled.

"Have it your way," Ron mumbled. He drank his soup quickly, letting it run down his face and onto his robes. His three tablemates watched him in disgust as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Hermione wished that Harry and Ginny had never invited them. She enjoyed seeing her best friend and her sister-in-law, but Ron was not suitable for public places. As other tables stared at them, she realized it was not because they were trying to catch a glance of the Minister for Magic, a former Holyhead Harpy, or the Chosen One. They were staring because of her repulsive husband's table manners.

Ron poured himself another full glass, emptying the bottle of wine. He snapped his fingers in the air, looking for a waiter to give them another bottle.

"Maybe you ought to slow down," Harry suggested, worriedly. "We aren't even on the main course yet."

With a burp, Ron spat, "Well, I don't know how fancy places like this work. I'm not all refined like you lot."

To Hermione's dismay, Gabriel stopped by their table with more wine. Ron quickly filled his glass and began chugging it once more, allowing it to dribble down his chin.

"Ron, _please_ take your time. I don't want to—"

Then, the camera flashed. Hermione's heart stopped as she turned around to see a smirking reporter in a nearby booth. The man waggled his fingers at her, took another photograph, and got to his feet. All that she could do was watch him leave a handful of Galleons on the table and leave, his camera in one hand and his hat in the other. Time slowed as she realized that all her hard work to better her public image was about to be ruined.

"That's not going to be good," Ginny murmured, taking a sip of wine.

"Ron, I can't _believe_ you!" Hermione hissed. "You know how hard I've been working this week because of the _Daily Prophet_ fiasco and you still couldn't behave for just one night!"

He let out a burp. "How was I s'posed to know someone would be in the restaurant with a camera?"

"Because they _follow_ me, Ron! How many times have we been over this?" she scowled. "If you've listened to me even once for the past two and a half years, you'd know that you always have to be on your toes in public— _especially_ when we're meeting other high-profile witches and wizards like Harry and Ginny!"

Ginny and Harry awkwardly stared at their wine glasses, trying not to involve themselves.

"Like you were on your toes when you went to lunch with bloody Malfoy?" he said, darkly.

Livid, Hermione slid out of the booth. "I need to use the ladies' room."

"I'll join you," Ginny said, elbowing Harry so he would let her out of the booth. Once he did, she hitched arms with Hermione and they headed towards the bathroom together. Ginny turned around to glare at her brother.

The bathroom was even grander than the dining area, decorated in amethyst and gold. Hermione leaned against one of the gold-plated pedestal sinks and ran her hands through her thick, bushy hair.

"I can't take any more bad press, Ginny."

Ginny grabbed her hand. "Hermione, you're the strongest witch I know. You'll get through it. It's just another gossipy _Daily Prophet_ article. The public doesn't take it seriously."

"But they do!" Hermione exclaimed, jerking her hand away. She crossed her arms and paced the empty bathroom, her heels clacking against the tile. "My advisors estimate my approval rating went down ten percent in one week. _One week_ , Ginny."

Ginny searched for the right words. Carefully, she replied, "Well, maybe people will be more understanding. They'll see what you're dealing with at home."

Tears welled in Hermione's eyes. "He's like this _all_ the time. I don't know how I'm supposed to work all day and come home to this."

Ginny murmured a quick spell to dry the mascara-stained tears on Hermione's face. The streams of black disappeared. "He's been getting worse for a long time, Hermione. We knew you couldn't hide it forever."

Sadly, Hermione whispered, "How long have you known?"

Ginny sighed. "Well, nobody else got any eggnog for Christmas last year because he polished it off the night before. Was kind of a sign."

"I'm still sorry about that," Hermione muttered. "I can't stop him. He's always crude and drunk and—and—" She stopped herself short. She could not say the words.

"And what?"

Hermione shook her head. "Forget it." She exhaled. "I'm so sorry we ruined your anniversary, Ginny."

Ginny touched her shoulder and shook her head. "It's not your fault. You can't control him."

Hermione nodded. "I think it's best if we take off so you and Harry can enjoy your dinner. I'll pay for the whole thing. I just don't want any more drama for either of you. We've done enough damage."

" _Ron_ has done enough damage," Ginny corrected. "Don't blame yourself for my brother."

Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Gin."

"Now give me a hug." Ginny pulled Hermione into a tight, sisterly embrace. "You know, Harry and I are always around if you ever need somewhere to go, right?"

"I appreciate that more than you know."

"And I mean what I said before," she warned. "Malfoy might not be right in the head right now. Just be careful, okay? No more weird lunch dates. You already have too much on your plate. We don't need a Death Eater on your tail too."

Forcing another smile through gritted teeth, Hermione nodded in feigned agreement.

The two women exited the bathroom and went back to the table, where they found the main course. Ron had already finished his plate, flecks of potato smeared on his cheek. Harry, however, had waited for them.

"Feel better?" Harry asked, raising his brows.

Hermione smiled and grabbed her purse from beside Ron. She dug inside of it and found a handful of Galleons. "Actually, I think Ron and I are going to go home."

Ron furrowed his brow. "We haven't even gotten dessert!"

"We're leaving," Hermione said, firmly. She lightly set the Galleons on the table and smiled at Harry and Ginny. "Happy anniversary, you two. I'm sorry for all the ruckus."

"Hermione, you don't have to go." Harry pleaded.

"We do," Hermione said. "Ron, come on."

"But dessert will be out soon!"

"Ronald, I'm not asking."

Growling, Ron finished his final glass of wine and threw his napkin on the table. Hermione hurried out of the restaurant, not turning around to see if Ron was following her. The hostess thanked them on their way out.

"What was that all about?" Ron demanded. His voice echoed among the closed buildings and empty street.

"You know exactly what it was about," she snapped. "I'm going home. If you want to stand out here drunk in Diagon Alley, be my guest. At this point, I don't think you can make me look any worse."

Furious, she Apparated back to their home in Godric's Hollow. She angrily kicked off her pumps and stormed to the bathroom to wash the makeup from her fair skin. As she unclasped her necklace, she heard Ron walking down the hallway.

"Hermione—"

"Ron, unless you're here to apologize, I'm really not in the mood," she growled, pulling out her earring.

He leaned in the doorway of the bathroom, his hands in the pockets of his dress robes. "When will I ever do anything right, Hermione?"

She knit her brows together. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he started, "that all I do is fuck up anymore. When's the last time I did something right?"

Hermione stared at him, eyes fixed on his somber features. She waited for an answer to come to her, but it had been so long that she could not remember.

"Exactly. You can't even remember, can you?"

In a small voice, she replied, "No, I can't."

"You weren't like this when we first got married. You used to like me."

"Ron, of course I still like you," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Do you?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub. He laced his fingers together. "We never have anything nice to say to each other. You sleep as far away from me as you can."

She was silent. It was the first time he had ever acknowledged the flaws in their marriage.

"Say something!" he shouted.

With a small jump, she drew away from him, leaning against the sink. "I-I don't know what you want me to say, Ron. I think you know this has been a problem for a while now."

"But why? What is so wrong with me, Hermione? You married me, for Merlin's sake! You knew what you were getting into!"

"I didn't know you were a drunk, Ron! I just thought you were a boy in your twenties! I didn't know you'd be drinking two fifths a day when you were forty!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

He clenched his jaw. "Well, if I'm not good enough, maybe you shouldn't be married to me."

The words smacked her across the face. She opened her mouth, trying to find a response, but she did not know what to say. Tears were in her eyes, but she blinked them away, trying to comprehend what he had just said to her. She choked on her words, staring at the man that she had once loved more than life itself.

"It's fine, Hermione. I'll sleep on the couch. Just go."

She didn't argue. Instead, she retired to her study and closed the door behind her. Sobbing, she pulled out the photo of her and Draco at the Hog's Head Inn. Her young smile tortured her as she questioned what she had done to shed the joy of her former self. Draco looked back at her, wide-eyed and confused, his arm steadying her as she drunkenly gave him bunny ears.

Her heart ached. If only she and Ron were as happy as she looked in that photograph.


	7. Passageway

Hermione found herself spending more and more time at work. As she expected, Ron's public drunkenness had made the _Daily Prophet_ and a number of other publications, earning her more time in the office and even more public relations trainings. Little did her colleagues know, she cherished every moment of it. Avoiding her husband had become part of her daily routine, and more time at the office meant more time away from home. On Sunday, she spent the day locked in her study, reading, and when she returned home during the workweek, she usually retreated to their bedroom. Ron had slept on the sofa every night, and it was no secret that Hermione was glad that he did.

Tuesday evening, Hermione found herself arriving home well past nine o' clock, after working closely with Gob. They spent the entire evening drafting a response to the most recent article that the _Daily Prophet_ had released.

"You've been gone awhile," Ron growled as she Apparated into their home. He was fixated on the olive green potion in front of him. Piled around him, there were ingredients, a half-empty bottle of firewhisky, prepackaged Cauldron Cakes, and several plastic wrappers. "Where were you? At the Leaky Cauldron with some Death Eaters?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and hung her purse on the coat rack. "Yes, they send their best. By the way, I have to use the Cruciatus Curse on you before the night is out." She took off her jacket. "But really, I was working. I don't know if you saw the _Prophet_ , but it didn't make cleaning up your mess any easier."

"Thought that's what you spent all day working on yesterday," Ron muttered, not making eye contact with her.

With a sigh, Hermione pulled a rolled-up newspaper from her purse and tossed it onto the counter beside him. He eyed her as she hung up her purse and jacket and said, "Well, they haven't exactly given up yet."

Ron nervously peered at the headline. It read, "A LONG TIME COMING: MINISTER'S HUSBAND AND HIS HISTORY OF ALCOHOL ABUSE" in wide, bold letters. He frowned and grabbed the newspaper before slowly reading it to himself.

 _Ronald Weasley, husband to the Minister for Magic, was recently found drunk and disorderly at Alohomora, home of Diagon Alley's finest French cuisine. The Minister and her husband were said to be accompanying Harry Potter and his wife, Weasley's sister and the Minister's sister-in-law, Ginny Potter. A former Holyhead Harpy and sports writer for the_ Daily Prophet _, Ginny Potter refused to discuss her and her husband's presence. Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, could not be reached for comment._

_After Weasley's embarrassing and inebriated evening at Alohomora, we received multiple reports regarding his long and troubling history with alcohol abuse. According to Weasley's friends and family, his struggle with drinking began well before his marriage to the Minister for Magic._

_One source claims that Weasley's drinking started just after the Second Wizarding War during his time as an Auror. Depressed from the war's events, he turned to alcoholism._

_"His brother died," our source, who wishes to re_ _main anonymous, says. "He couldn't take it. He was always coming into the office drunk, casting spells on himself to try and play it off. It wasn't until his spell backfired that he was caught. He was going after some Death Eaters in Belfast when he fell down and hit his head. The Death Eaters got away and he had to go to The Crying Lady Healing Center for the rest of the night. The Minister [Kingsley Shacklebolt] forced him to do desk work for a while after that. They couldn't trust him in the field."_

_Weasley's drunken disobedience did not end there. According to public record, there were six other recorded incidents in which he was found to be under the influence on the job during his time as an Auror._

_Sources also claim that Weasley had imbibed before his wedding. This may not seem unusual, but alcohol had taken such a toll on his body that he did not even remember he and the Minister for Magic's special day._

_"He was quite a mess, falling all over himself during the ceremony," Fleur Weasley, the Minister's sister-in-law, says. "Bill and I felt very sad for Hermione [the Minister] because he couldn't say his vows right. The next day, he did not even remember getting married. Ronald is very sweet, but he does need help with his drinking. My husband has talked to him about it before."_

_Another source backs Fleur Weasley's claims. "He was plastered, yeah. Vomited all over the aisle right after they did the rings. Hermione [the Minister] was pretty put out by it but who could blame her?"_

_Sadly, Weasley did not grow out of his dependence on alcohol. Reports allege that he has been noticeably drunk at a number of Ministry events, including charity galas and holiday parties._

_We reached out to the Minister for Magic, but she declined to comment at this time._

Hermione was staring at him, anger in her dark eyes. " _This_ is what I was talking about at dinner the other night. _This_ is why I've been working late."

"Can't believe Fleur said all that about me," he grumbled. He tossed the newspaper back onto the counter and fixed his gaze on his potion. "S'pose it's best not to dwell on it."

"You're angry about _Fleur?_ " she shouted, her fists balled. "You did something absolutely vile that I _warned_ you about and you're going to blame _Fleur?_ "

"Well, it's disloyal, innit?" Ron pointed out, sprinkling some dandruff into the small cauldron. "Snitching on family and the like."

"You're absolutely impossible, Ronald," Hermione scoffed, her stomach growling. She had not eaten all day.

Ron tossed back his firewhisky bottle and gestured the heap of prepackaged Cauldron Cakes that sat atop the counter. Frowning, Hermione mumbled a brief "no thank you" and sat down on the sofa. Her stomach growled once more.

"I offered you food," Ron mumbled, dropping a few lacewing flies into the tiny cauldron bubbling on the countertop. It smelled terrible, reeking of foot odor and cat urine.

"Yes, well I wouldn't call Cauldron Cakes a meal, Ron," Hermione spat.

"Suit yourself. More for me," he retorted, stirring the mixture. The potion sputtered and he sighed, reaching for another Cauldron Cake. "Damn it. Stupid flies."

Hermione exhaled sharply and got to her feet. "I think I'm going to bed. I trust you'll be taking the sofa again."

He grunted in response before taking a long drink of firewhisky.

Annoyed, Hermione stalked to their bedroom and locked the door behind her. She placed her wand on the nightstand and undressed herself before slipping her nude body underneath the cool sheets. Her stomach rolled, hungrily. Unwilling to go back into the kitchen with Ron, she grabbed her wand and cast a quick sustenance spell. Of course, it was only a spell, so she would feel extremely hungry as soon as it wore off. With a sigh, she placed the wand back on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling in the semidarkness.

She was wide awake, unable to sleep as she thought about her situation with her husband. Lack of communication had been a problem between the two of them since they were friends as young children, but when she married him, she was convinced that it would get better. As she grew older, she had accepted the harsh reality that it was only getting worse.

Then, she remembered Draco's invitation.

_"Have lunch with me next Wednesday at our old spot."_

The difficult weekend had clouded her mind, and her alleyway talk with Draco had seemed like a distant memory. She chewed on her lip, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Lunch with Draco was virtually harmless at the Leaky Cauldron, since there were other witches and wizards there. The only true consequences were bad press and Ron's catty remarks. The invitation to join him for lunch at their old spot was quite dissimilar. They would be alone, joined only by nature and their own thoughts.

Part of her feared to go, because she had a feeling that it would be a turning point in her life. Another part of her wanted nothing more than to spend more time with him. She ached for the raw, human connection that they once had—the human connection that Ron had never offered her in all of their many years of marriage.

Plus, she was quite curious about the favor that he mentioned.

Unfortunately, the overwhelming guilt made her want to vomit. She felt guilty for missing Draco's soft embrace. She felt guilty that Astoria was dead. She felt guilty that Ron made her so unhappy, and most of all, she felt guilty that for some bizarre reason, she envied the dead woman that Draco had once called his.

Even though everything told her that it was wrong, in the innermost workings of her heart, she ached to see him again.

As she slowly drifted off to sleep, she wrestled with her decision. She was afraid of the future, but she knew that she could not keep living her life the same way.

* * *

The morning was over more quickly than Hermione anticipated. After several meetings and reading some ancillary documents, she heard murmurs of lunch plans echoing throughout the winding corridors of the headquarters of the Ministry of Magic. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. She knew that she had to make her choice. Time had run out.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she weighed her two options. If it had not been for recent events, she would have already made her decision. However, her life had drastically changed. The choice was not as easy as it was when she and Ron were younger.

Then, without a second thought, she Apparated to Hogsmeade. Breathlessly, she looked around the empty street and transfigured her work robes into a cloak. She pulled the hood over her face to hide her identity as her feet pounded the cobblestone.

The lump in her throat questioned her decision. Nevertheless, she kept running. She panted, eyes darting around to find the Hog's Head. It had been decades since she had visited the pub, but according to rumors, her old friend was still there.

She ran past shop after shop, many of them new, until she finally saw the rundown inn. With a nervous sigh, she pushed open the door. The foul aroma of goat immediately entered her nostrils.

The inn was strangely quiet, with only one man at the bar. His hair was scraggly and his clothes were torn, reminding her slightly of the man that had made a pass at her in her N.E.W.T. year. Several empty glasses were in front of him and he appeared to be sleeping.

There was no bartender in sight, but she had no intention of waiting for one. Instead, she waltzed past the sleeping drunk, slipped behind the bar, and walked into the back and up the stairs. Not to her surprise, she saw an aged figure bending over a table.

"Hermione Granger," Aberforth noted, not turning around. "I can't say I didn't expect you."

"Aberforth!" she breathed. "I wasn't sure you were here."

He turned around and gave her a nod. "I'm afraid I haven't fallen off the broom yet."

"I'm glad for that, sir," Hermione noted with a nod back. "I-I actually was hoping I could—"

"You want to go to the grounds," he interrupted. He looked up at Ariana's portrait and nodded. "I said that I expected you. Mr. Malfoy was here recently and I assumed you would be joining him."

Hermione became a shade of crimson. "Well, I was—I mean, we—"

He shook his head and held his hand up. "Spare me the details, Granger. I'm sure I've seen enough of you and Mr. Malfoy to know why you both showed up today. Though, I do have to tell you that I don't appreciate you telling him about Ariana. I don't think you could've been sure about him, back then."

"Nothing bad ever came of it, did it?"

He gave her a knowing look. "It would seem not."

Hermione let out a grateful sigh. "Good, good."

"You ought to be going," he said. "He left probably thirty minutes ago. I imagine you're late."

Ariana's portrait reached out to her, pulling her into the secret passageway to the Room of Requirement. Aberforth watched Hermione intently as she pulled herself up. Kneeling, she turned around and thanked him.

Together, they followed the passageway all the way to the Room of Requirement. With a soft goodbye, Hermione hopped out the other side and exhaled. She was halfway there.

As soon as she left the Room of Requirement, the lump in her throat grew larger. She would have to avoid students and professors or she would be recognized. Shaking from her nerves, she wondered if Draco's trek to their spot was a success. If he had been caught by one of the professors, there would be no explanation for the coincidence.

Quickly, she transfigured her cloak into Hufflepuff robes. To many parents' glee, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had adjusted its dress code. Gone were the plain black robes, only to be replaced with tacky green, red, blue, and yellow embroidery. While McGonagall claimed this was to reflect "house pride", it was clear that the parents' intentions were much different. Even after so many years had gone by, they did not want their children socializing with those in Slytherin House. With emerald collars, they were marked.

She kept her head low, snaking through the many corridors of the castle. Fortunately, classes were in session, so the only students in the hallways were sixth and seventh years with free periods. They were mostly busy, chatting amongst themselves or perched in the enclaves to study for their upcoming midyear exams. Occasionally, one would peek up at her, but as she looked down towards the stone floor, nobody seemed to recognize her.

Once she had finally reached the carriage doors, she opened them and wandered outside. She darted her eyes every-which-way, hoping that nobody on the grounds would see her. Moving as quickly as her feet would carry her, she passed the Whomping Willow. The edge of the forest was only a hundred feet away. She was nearly there.

"'ermione Granger?" a familiar, gruff voice called out.

She stopped dead in her tracks, her heart pounding and her eyes bulging. Slowly, she looked to her left and saw an aged face peering out the front door of his small hut. Wild, silver hair stuck out from his beard and his head, but the hulking figure was unmistakably Rubeus Hagrid.

"Hagrid!" she gasped, almost happy to see him. Nevertheless, she knew that getting caught by anyone could end badly for her, even if it was Hagrid. She decided that she had to make small talk. It was the only way that he might keep her visit a secret. "Lovely to see you!"

He gave her a skeptical look as he approached her. "Hupplepuff robes? What're you up to?"

Hermione blushed, unsure how she could tell Hagrid what her intentions were. She had not seen him in years, and she ached for one of his bone-crushing hugs. "I-I was just going for a little stroll. I suppose I've been feeling nostalgic."

He grinned and got closer to her, picking her up for the hug that she craved. Even in old age, warmth emanated from the friendly half-giant. "Can't say I'm upset you came! I reckon I can put on some tea—"

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but she quickly realized it would seem suspicious. She forced a smile as he set her back onto the ground. "Tea would be brilliant."

He waved her towards his hut and she followed him, secretly hoping that Draco would wait for her. She was extraordinarily late, but getting caught was not an option. After all of the negative press, she had to be careful.

Hagrid closed the door behind him and laughed, dumping some water into a tea kettle. He placed it over the fire and gestured to his small table before sitting down. Hermione sat across from him.

"Surprised to see ya here, 'ermione," he noted, clasping his gargantuan hands together. "After all the nonsense in the _Prophet_ , I figured ya'd be lyin' low."

Hermione smiled, awkwardly. "Well, I suppose that may be why I needed to get away for a bit."

He nodded. "You able to see yer little ones while yer here?"

Sadly, Hermione shook her head. "I wouldn't like anyone to know I'm on the grounds, actually. I just wanted to go for a little walk, for old times' sake."

"I understan'," he replied, putting a finger to his mouth. "Promise I'm better at keepin' secrets than I used ter be."

Hermione smiled. "Thank you, Hagrid."

The kettle hissed and he stood, shaking the hut walls as he excused himself from the table. He grabbed the kettle and poured its contents into two small teacups. She watched him dip the tea-bags—one, two, three, four, five times—and thanked him as he handed her one of the tiny pieces of china.

"It's been a lot quieter 'ere since You-Know-Who's been gone," Hagrid noted, sitting across from her once more. "We got quite a Min'ster of Magic in office, not to mention." He chuckled and gave her a wink.

"You're too kind," she laughed. The tea was steaming as she lifted it to her lips and blew on it. "I trust Hugo and Rose have been behaving."

He nodded. The teacup looked rather ridiculous between his giant fingers as he took a sip. He set the cup back down. "I don't see 'em often, not as often as I saw you lot. S'pose that's all for the best, though. Means they're stayin' outta trouble."

Hermione laughed again. "Sorry for all those years, Hagrid. We certainly were a handful."

"Ah, no reason to apologize!" he said, waving his hand. "He'd still be 'round if it weren't for the three of ya. Harry visits 'ere and there. I don't think I've seen Ron since the weddin', on the other 'and. How is 'e?"

Drawing in a deep breath, she replied, carefully, "Ron isn't as well as I'd like him to be."

Hagrid nodded. "The drinkin's still that bad, eh?"

Hermione closed her eyes. "It's quite out of control. It has been for a long time."

Sorrow was etched into Hagrid's deep wrinkles. "'arry mentioned he was still strugglin' with it a while back. Read it in the paper too, but can't trust the rubbish they put into print."

"I wish things were different, but I'm not sure he'll ever get better, if I'm being honest."

Sympathy still emanated from him. "I reckon that's why yer 'ere at the castle."

She was not sure how to respond. Her visit with Draco had everything to do with Ron's condition. She wondered if Hagrid had seen him go into the Forbidden Forest. Some part of her knew that he knew what she was doing.

"Yes," she finally answered.

"Aye. I'm sorry to 'ear abou' all that. He was a good kid."

Hermione gave him a sad smile. "He was."

Hagrid raised his bushy brows. "I s'pose you ought to be finishin' yer walk, then."

Hermione swallowed, awkwardly and put her hand on his. "I should. Thank you for the tea, old friend. It was truly a treat to see you."

"You take care of yerself. And—er—if anything happens to ya, just send that otter o' yers. I'll be there faster than ya can say 'bowtruckle'."

Still smiling sadly at her friend, Hermione stood. She walked to the door and turned around for a moment. "Hagrid?"

"Yes, 'ermione?"

With tears in her eyes, she choked out, "Could I have one more hug?"

Grinning, he got up from the table and shuffled towards her, arms outstretched. "O' course."

She felt young again, taking in his familiar, musky smell. It was the type of smell that she knew to be foul, yet it still comforted her. She stood there in his embrace for a long while, bittersweet tears running down her cheeks. After what seemed like an eternity, she pulled away and smiled at him.

"Thank you, Hagrid."

He nodded. "If ya ever need anything, ya know right where I am."


	8. Unhappy

The Forbidden Forest was just as shady as Hermione remembered. Her heart thudded in the walls of her chest as she weaved between the trees and stepped over endless sticks and sizable rocks. Rays of sunlight darted through the few gaps in the heavy canopy, giving her the light that she needed to find her way to the spot she knew so well.

Birds cawed, perching on high branches and peering down at her, watching her every move. She chewed on her lip as she looked to her left and to her right, knowing that she was getting closer to the place where Draco had told her to meet him. With each step, her heart beat faster.

Then, finally, she was there. Amidst a great sycamore tree and a handful of evergreens, there was a large boulder and a stump. Seated atop the trunk of fallen jack pine was the young-looking, fair-skinned man that had invited her to the isolated place.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up," Draco murmured, smirking.

"Honestly, I didn't think I was going to either," Hermione admitted, watching him awkwardly.

The bizarre sensation of déjà vu rushed over Hermione as she tentatively sat down on the boulder. Draco dug in his faded black messenger bag until he found a sandwich wrapped in cloth. He raised his brows and tossed it to her.

"Thank you," Hermione said, peeling back the cloth. She took a large bite and let out a small, satisfied moan. As soon as she bit into it, she realized how little she had eaten over the weeks. "It's _delicious_."

"I know. I just ate one," he replied, thoughtfully, "since you were so late and all."

Hermione blushed. "To be fair, you didn't specify an exact time, and not being able to Apparate here tends to complicate things."

Draco nodded, cocking a sly eyebrow. "The privacy is worth the trip, I'd say. Seemed like you didn't need any more nasty press."

She took another bite. "I certainly don't."

The two of them had not been alone in their spot in the Forbidden Forest since they were teenagers. While Hermione tried not to reminisce, it was difficult when Draco was staring back at her, barely looking older than he did when they were in school.

"Scorpius tells me he comes to the forest sometimes," Draco noted before casting a quick ward. "I try not to think about him there ever since he ran away with Potter's boy... I am proud that he's a bit of a rebel like his old man, though." He cast another ward.

"I wouldn't call you a _rebel_ ," Hermione mused. "I think 'jerk' is the word you're actually looking for."

Draco smirked. "You weren't calling me a jerk by the tail end of it, were you?"

Her face reddened, but still, she could not let him get away with such sly comments. "I was sparing your feelings, obviously. It's not my fault you've always been so... _sensitive_." She let the last word roll off her tongue like it made her physically ill.

He chuckled. "Same attitude you've always had, Granger."

Hermione ate the last bite of her sandwich and cleared her throat. "So, are you looking forward to the holiday, then?"

"I suppose," he replied, slowly, furrowing his brow. He was not accustomed to her awkward topic swaps. Her face expressed the questions that her mouth wouldn't, but he knew he could only answer the questions she dared to ask. If he pushed her too much, she would leave. "Like I said before, I'll spend it with my parents and Scorpius, so that is something to look forward to. I imagine you'll be spending it with your children and Weasley?"

"Yes, we go to my in-laws'," Hermione murmured, looking down at the forest floor.

Still bothered by her proverbial tiptoeing, a frown graced his face. He did not want to push her too far, but he had to have answers. He had to know why she was not acting like the person that he once knew so well. "There's something wrong with you."

"What? My filthy Muggle blood?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "I thought we got past that when you decided to have sex with me."

He snorted. It was good to hear her making jokes. "No. I meant your demeanor. You've been acting strange every time I see you."

"And how would you know what I'm usually like?" she asked, annoyance in her tone. "You've hardly spoken to me in the last twenty years. I'm not nineteen anymore."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't be here if something wasn't going on, Granger."

"I'm here to learn about that favor you mentioned." Her voice cracked. "I-I'd like to know what it is."

"You only care about the favor because it gave you an excuse to come."

Hermione did not respond. She knew that he was right, but she did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead, she quietly stared at the damp ground, refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Well, let's think here," he said, hopping down from the fallen tree trunk. He laced his hands behind his back and paced back and forth. "You're the Minister for Magic. You just wrote your first book. I'm sure both of your children are getting nothing short of superb marks in school. What could possibly be going so wrong in your life that you agreed to meet with a Malfoy?"

"Oh, come off it, Draco," Hermione scoffed, finally making eye contact with him. "There's nothing wrong with meeting an old friend. You've said it yourself."

He cocked an eyebrow. "But you wouldn't have if everything was fine. Not _here_ , anyway. You forget, Granger. I _know_ you."

"So you keep reminding me," she muttered, crossing her arms.

"It's Weasley," he pointed out, finally crossing the line that he had promised himself he would not cross. "If you won't admit it, I'll say it for you."

With a deep sigh, Hermione replied, "Draco, it's _really_ none of your business."

"Perhaps not," he said, airily, stepping dangerously close to her. "Still, I'm going to go out on a limb here, Granger. I don't think you'd be here if things were good between you and Weaselbee. In fact, I don't think you'd be here if you didn't hope that I would be waiting for you when you finally found it in you to leave him."

He stood so close to her that she could smell the musk and Fraser fir on his jacket. The strong scent brought back memories of their time together.

_"You know, if you spent as much time studying as you do in the Forbidden Forest, I wouldn't have to help you with your Arithmancy homework," Hermione noted with a smirk. She sat beside him on the forest floor._

_He smirked back. "I think you owe me, anyway, Granger. Without my help in Potions, you wouldn't have finished your Alihotsy Draught yesterday."_

_"I would have finished it! I just—"_

_"You just what?" he cut her off, grinning. "You just couldn't figure out how to chop Alihotsy leaves without the help of a rather handsome Slytherin?"_

_Hermione pushed him, lightly. "You'll always be an arse, won't you?"_

_"Probably. Interesting that you're so drawn to arses," he replied, raising his brows. "I'm always trying to get rid of you and you keep following me. You'd think you'd want to get away from me since I'm such a—what was the word again? Arse?"_

_"Makes sense you'd be trying to get rid of me. I am a Mudblood after all. You should've used the Killing Curse on me months ago," Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes._

_He planted a kiss on her lips, only to pull away with a devious grin. "I'm killing you the slow way—with my irresistible charm."_

Hermione did not know how long she had been lost in the memory. Her cheeks were hot as she thought about their adolescent kiss. When she finally returned to reality, Draco was waving his pale hand in front of her face.

"Sorry," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "I was just thinking."

He looked her up and down. "Don't apologize. It's not like you."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "What do you mean it's not like me?"

"Because it's not. You've always stood up for yourself, especially to me. What the hell has Weasley done to you?"

Hermione closed her eyes. She did not know if she could tell him the truth. She wasn't even sure if she fully understood the truth. Being jealous of his deceased wife and detesting the man that she married did not seem like reasonable behavior.

Draco leaned closer to her, studying her uneasy expression. "If that absolute swine is hitting you—"

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" she hissed, waving him away. "He doesn't _beat_ me. He's just a drunk."

Draco took a step back and gave her a confused look. "For how long? The Granger I know wouldn't put up with that."

She buried her face in her hands. "I suppose since before we got married. I don't _really_ want to discuss it, though, Draco. I'm sure you could read all about it in the _Prophet_."

Draco chewed on his lip for a moment, his eyes narrow. "Do you remember the first time we came here?" he suddenly asked.

Hermione nodded, slowly. "The day after Halloween. You didn't want to be seen with me."

"I didn't want anyone to _curse_ us," Draco corrected her. He sat down on the edge of the boulder beside her, his arm only centimeters from hers. "Too bad you hexed me, anyway."

"You called me a Mudblood," Hermione pointed out. "You deserved it."

"Exactly," he agreed. "I deserved it."

She watched him, suspiciously. "What _exactly_ is your point, Malfoy?"

He chuckled. "The point is that you didn't let me get away with it. Then, I apologized, and I swear on my own grave that I've never used that word again."

"Never?" she inquired, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Somehow I have a hard time believing that."

"It's the truth."

She frowned. "I still don't know what that has to do with Ron."

"You're letting him get away with something that's affecting you and your children, but you hexed me for a bloody word. Think about it, Granger," he explained.

"You tortured me since first year," she spat. "I wasn't just going to let go of seven years of hell because you'd been nice to me for a few weeks."

"And you shouldn't let go of twenty years of hell because someone was your friend when you were kids," he growled.

Hermione was silent. She knew that her former flame was right, yet she could not tell him that. Their complicated history laced his tone, leaving her to wonder if the two of them had unfinished business. Alas, even if they did, she was still married to Ron.

"What are you so scared of, Granger?"

She could not meet his eye. "I'm not afraid of anything," she lied. "Life isn't always going to be perfect. Of all people, I'd think _you_ would understand that."

The blond widower flared his nostrils. "It's been perfect before."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, come off it, Draco. I've known you since we were kids. When has your life _ever_ been perfect?"

He stared at her, his dark eyes answering the question. She hurriedly looked away.

"You know, the Minister of Russia is waiting on me," she mumbled, scrambling down from the boulder. "I don't exactly need another hit piece on me so I suppose I better get back to the office."

Draco nodded, silently. The air was thick with tension.

"I don't know if we should keep meeting like this," Hermione continued, flustered.

Draco nodded again.

She gave him a melancholic smile. "It was nice to see you again, Draco."

* * *

Leaving the grounds of Hogwarts was just as difficult as it was to reach them. To her delight, Aberforth spared her any questions when she arrived at the Hog's Head. From there, she Apparated back to her office and transfigured her Hufflepuff attire back into her work robes.

She sat down at her desk and buried her face in her hands. Every time she saw Draco, she was only reminded of their past. Comparing him to Ron was second nature, and in every scenario, the blond wizard outdid the man that she chose to marry. Holding in a sob, she swallowed the pain and confusion.

Then, there was a knock on the door to her office.

"C-come in!" she stammered, pressing her eyelids to assure that tears did not develop. She could not embarrass herself in front of the Russian Minister for Magic.

The door swung open and Madelyn slowly walked in, anxiety in her expression. She chewed on her lip. "Minister?"

"Yes? What?" Hermione snapped. She cleared her throat and repeated it more professionally. "Yes. What is it? Where is the Minister?"

Madelyn gulped. "W-well, you were gone for quite a while and you actually m-missed him. He wasn't very happy that you w-were late a-and he left. He called me a M—well, I won't repeat it."

"It was only by a few minutes," Hermione replied, glancing at the grandmother clock on the wall. Then, she zeroed in on one concerning detail. "Wait, what did he call you, Madelyn?"

Madelyn kicked the floor, uncomfortably. "W-well it's a not-so-nice word for M-Muggle-born."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. If she had not gone to Hogwarts, Madelyn never would have been called the toxic word. Yet, part of her was glad that she went. It gave the Russian Minister the opportunity to show his true colors. He was the type of ambassador she did not want visiting the United Kingdom. "Send him a letter telling him we don't tolerate that kind of talk in our establishment. If anyone asks any questions, tell them we have no comment at this time. If anyone has anything nasty to say about it, we'll just have to tell the papers _exactly_ what he called you."

Madelyn opened her mouth to protest, but swallowed her objection. In a small voice, she replied, "Of course, Minister. We'll send that out at once."

Madelyn closed the door behind her and Hermione exhaled, sharply. As much as she wanted to blame Draco Malfoy for her life challenges, it would not have been fair. Her husband and her career had been creating obstacles for her far before her adolescent fling visited her at Flourish and Blotts.


	9. Fury

The perplexing day ended with Hermione returning to Ron, who was lazily sprawled out on the sofa, his hand down his boxers and his eyes fixed on a fizzing vial. As she hung up her jacket, he craned his neck to look at her, still scratching himself.

"You look cozy," Hermione noted, shooting him a disapproving glance. "Did you eat dinner?"

The vial fizzled out, spitting small sparks of green and pink. "Been too busy. What are you gonna make?" Ron yawned and stretched his arms. "Y'know, some bubble and squeak sounds quite nice."

She gritted her teeth. "My wrist is a bit wand-sore from work, actually. If you don't mind, could you just grab something from the ice box and heat it up real quick?"

Ron sat up, clutching his head as his drunkenness made the room spin. " _Hermione_ , I worked too. I'm sick of you acting like you're the only one that does anything around here."

Hermione looked around the living room and the neighboring kitchen. It was caked in potion ingredients, spilled firewhisky, and Ron's dirty joggers hung from one of the barstools. She let out a deep sigh and waved her wand, quickly reorganizing his mess. Her sore wrist ached from the brief motion. Cauldron Cake wrappers disappeared, a dirty cloth wiped away the firewhisky and potion ingredients, and Ron's trousers were clean and folded neatly. Lastly, the dead vial that had once been fizzing so brightly hoisted itself upwards and dropped beside the tiny cauldron on the counter with the rest of Ron's potion ingredients and equipment. She put her hands on her hips and turned to face her husband, whose fingers were laced in his hair, lightly tugging on it to ward off the effects of inebriation.

"Can you stop looking at me like that?" he groaned, rubbing his temples with his palms.

"Ronald, I'm just wondering what you actually _did_ today." Hermione asked, frustrated with the fact that she was always expected to take care of the house when he worked from home. After her short lunch with Draco Malfoy, she was eager to prove that her husband was capable of more. Unfortunately, he was not off to a good start. "The house is an absolute mess and I _know_ you didn't work all day."

"I did too!" he argued, glaring daggers at her. "I was working when you walked in the door! Product testing!"

"Product testing," Hermione repeated slowly. "And you couldn't fold your trousers or clean up your empty bottles while you were 'product testing'?" She made air quotes.

Ron lowered his voice an octave. "I mean, you could hire a house-elf like all the other rich folks do."

Hermione gasped. "That's vile, Ron! How could you even suggest such a thing?"

"Well, they aren't slaves anymore!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet. He towered over her as he threw his hands up in frustration. "You're the Minister for bloody Magic, for Merlin's sake! You're _supposed_ to pay for help around the house!"

After all of her efforts to free house-elves, Hermione felt that it was not fair to make them do the same work she had freed them from. Rich families still employed them often, as so many of them were quite talented when it came to house chores. Nevertheless, they were paid like anyone else in the Wizarding world. Hermione could not deny them employment, but she did not need them to work for her. She would leave that up to people like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

"Do you have any idea how hypocritical that would be?" Hermione seethed, making fists.

Ron rolled his eyes. "What's hypocritical about payin' 'em? Regular people get paid. You'd be treating 'em the same as you and me are treated."

" _Regular_ people?" she mirrored, angrily.

"Oh, you know what I mean, Hermione!" he spat. "They're elves! They're not like you and me but they're treated like it now, aren't they? They like to help. Pay one for it and then we won't have to fight like this anymore!"

Hermione backed away from him, shaking her head and crossing her arms. "You think that _that's_ the solution, then? Pay a house-elf to do everything around the house while you drink and throw Flobberworms in cauldrons all day? You think that will fix our marriage, Ron?"

He stared at her, his mouth agape. "Throw Flobberworms in cauldrons? That's what you think I do?"

"It _is_ what you do!" she exclaimed. "Your biggest problem in life is choosing which box to put wrinkle cream in! You've been working on the same product for the past _year_ and you _still_ can't figure it out because you spent more time squabbling with Snape and snogging Lavender Brown than you did actually _learning_ something in school!"

Ron knit his brows together, livid. "You think I can't do it. You think I'll never get it right."

"No, I don't think you can get it right, Ron!" she yelled with a furious, misplaced laugh. "I think it's a way for you to get your brother to pay you to sit around and drink. And why not? Why _should_ you do anything even remotely useful? You know I'll always come home and make sure everything is done at one point or another. You _get to_ leave it a mess for days, because _I'll_ come in and use the last of my energy to tidy up after you _every, single time_. When I married you, I never expected you to do anything important, Ronald, but I didn't expect you to be a lazy, inconsiderate, _foul_ drunk."

Ron was quiet for a moment, his brow crinkled and his nose and mouth contorted with hurt. Hermione's face fell as she quickly realized that she had said too much.

She walked towards him and touched his arm, apologetically. "Ron, I—"

He jerked away from her. "No, you meant it. Don't try to say that you didn't." With his gaze averted, he walked into the kitchen. "I'm just going to heat up some of those sausages from the ice box and go to bed."

"Ron—"

"I'd really rather not talk to you right now. I'll leave your dinner on the counter."

Pain was evident on Hermione's face as she hung her head lowly and made her way to her study. She closed the door behind her, her wrist still aching and anxiety driving a throbbing pain in her chest. Ron had been right. She _did_ mean everything that she had said, yet she still regretted the words when they fell from her lips. All of her disdain for him had built into something so hideous that all of her poisonous thoughts came out at once.

All of a sudden, she wasn't hungry anymore.

* * *

The next morning, she found Ron snoring on the sofa, a spilled bottle of firewhisky on the carpet beside him. Before she left for work, she flexed her sprained wrist and twirled her wand with a sigh. The firewhisky bottle disappeared with a sudden _pop!_ and the stain vanished. On the counter, the sausage from the night before sat untouched and cold. After taking a deep breath, she waved her wand once more and watched the plate empty itself into the bin.

She recalled the previous night's argument, still convinced that she had pushed her husband too far. Nevertheless, she had spoken the truth. She dealt with Ron's antics for their children, hoping that their situation would better itself. Then, they could be the happy family that Hugo and Rose deserved. Alas, the worse that his drinking became, the more she wondered if he should even be allowed around either of them. He was a danger not only to himself, but to their mental health as well.

_"You're letting him get away with something that's affecting you and your children, but you hexed me for a bloody word. Think about it, Granger."_

Draco Malfoy's words stung. At the time, she convinced herself that he was being melodramatic. Defending Ron had become second nature, and it had become so easy to say that he was an imperfect spouse, yet a wonderful father. In actuality, their children's presence did not stifle his drinking. When they were home, he acted exactly the same, if not worse.

As the holidays crept up upon them, she worried. He had begun drinking more alcohol since they started their term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and she did not know how they would react when they saw him in his current state.

She watched him for another moment, his chest rising and falling with each heavy snore, his arms wrapped around one of their navy throw pillows. It would be hours before he would wake up, exhausted, hungover, and irate. Hermione expressed silent gratitude that she would be gone, but then her face fell. During the holidays, her children would be alone with him while she worked, and that notion terrified her.

The grandfather clock moved with a loud _tock_ and she realized that she was nearly late for work. Closing her watery eyes, she begrudgingly Apparated to work, her mind spinning.

* * *

The Minister for Magic had a particularly busy morning, attending several misdemeanor hearings and signing a number of legal documents. One sixteen-year-old had used a cleaning charm underage over the summer, and they finally were able to hold the hearing. The Wizengamot cleared the young girl of all charges and moved onto the next so-called criminal, a particularly mortified man that had enchanted a television set.

"A television is not a reason to hold an entire hearing, in my opinion," Hermione stated, looking around the room at her colleagues.

Pudius Fetch from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office did not look so sure. He raised his hand slowly and replied, "It's an important Muggle artifact, a television set. Trying to enchant one to work in our world is an abomination."

An aged Arthur Weasley put his hand in the air, looking directly at Pudius Fetch. "Excuse me, Pudius, but I disagree. Illegal? Yes! Should it be? Perhaps not! That television set would have given us incredible insight into the magical use of Muggle objects—particularly electronics—had it been successful! Mr. Grindle had an opportunity to experiment and he did so. He had no ill intentions and they're fairly common items, are they not? I see no harm done."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Pudius Fetch growled. "You have to agree with your _daughter-in-law._ "

"Oh, please!" Arthur scoffed. "The Minister and myself oftentimes do not agree. I just don't think we ought to be using our resources on petty, victimless crimes."

"Victimless?" Pudius scoffed, getting to his feet. "The Muggle family that once owned that television set may not see it that way!"

"They wouldn't have put it in the bin if it was so important!" Arthur boomed.

Hermione closed her eyes, the stress from her home life and work pushing on all of the walls of her skull. Finally, she stood and shouted, "I think we have all said enough! Let us vote."

Pudius Fetch glared daggers in her direction, leaning back in his seat. Ferris Grindle stared up at the witches and wizards that were about to decide his fate, his eyes glassy with terror.

"Those that are in favor of dropping all charges?" Adalia Welch asked, peering around the room.

Almost all hands shot up into the air, excluding Pudius Fetch and a handful of others.

Hermione smiled and whacked the podium with her gavel. "Very well, then. Mr. Grindle is cleared of all charges."

Ferris Grindle let out a sigh of relief, tears of joy pouring down his face. He continued to sob, thanking Merlin over and over while all of the robed witches and wizards filed out of the large room. Hermione gave him a nod of approval as she followed her colleagues.

The long, winding hallways of the headquarters of the Ministry of Magic led her to the lift. She stepped onto it and waited to ascend back to the main floor, where she could quietly slip back into her office and finish her paperwork in peace.

After several stops on the way up, they finally reached her stop. Hermione stepped out, several others trailing behind her, and she made a beeline for her office. Unfortunately, she was nearly there when she heard a familiar voice.

"Minister!" her tiny assistant, Madelyn, squeaked, her petite heels click-clacking all the way to her. As Hermione turned around, she noticed that she was waving an envelope. "M-Minister!"

Hermione held her hand out and accepted the envelope. Frowning, she opened it in the corridor with random passersby eyeing her on their way to their respective offices.

She pulled the letter out of the envelope and quickly read it. Madelyn rocked on her heels, waiting for the news.

_Minister,_

_It is my understanding that you chose to treat me with disrespect a second time, after disrespecting me once with your lateness. Consider this letter a reminder that international relations are important to the witches and wizards under your jurisdiction. You will be hearing of me soon if we are unable to make amends._

_If you wish to resolve this professionally, you will find that I am staying at the Leaky Cauldron until I leave the country next Monday._

_Sincerely,_

_Fyodor Sokolov_

_Minister for Magic - Russia_

Hermione scoffed and crumpled up the letter.

"I assume it was not a friendly response?" Madelyn asked, awkwardly.

"Not exactly," she muttered. "I'll be in my office for the rest of the day. Please do your best not to bother me unless there is an emergency. I am quite behind on shuffling through those parchments you left with me this morning."

Madelyn nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Hermione began heading back to her office, but stopped and turned on her heel. "And Madelyn?"

"Yes?" Madelyn asked, waiting for further direction.

"Don't tell Gob about that letter."

* * *

As Hermione rifled through the stack of paperwork on her desk, her mind was elsewhere. She read paragraph after paragraph, immediately discovering that she was unable to retain what she had just read. Fatigued, she buried her face in her hands.

Her thoughts spun. Ron, the _Daily Prophet_ , the Russian Minister for Magic's letter, her children, and Draco Malfoy were a whirlwind of her complicated life. At the forefront, Draco Malfoy's words pecked at her brain.

_"You're letting him get away with something that's affecting you and your children, but you hexed me for a bloody word. Think about it, Granger."_

It was not the first time that Draco had given her advice when it came to Ron. In fact, he had given her similar advice in the same exact place when they were many years younger.

_It had snowed earlier in the morning, leaving the soothing scent of damp, frosty conifer trees. Still, Hermione could not bring herself to stop worrying. Harry had only responded to two of her dozens of letters and Ron had responded to none, leading her to believe that their friendship was on the rocks. It was the reason that she had been spending so much time with Draco Malfoy, although she still questioned her new attachment to him. It did not seem natural. He had been her enemy for so long._

_They had come to the Forbidden Forest to work on their Arithmancy homework together, but the blond wizard seemed more interested in wasting time. He had excelled in most classes that year without his usual distractions, but Arithmancy was not one of them. The more advanced that the course became, the more that he struggled. After Ron and Harry made her feel so unwanted, she was proud to know that someone needed her, even if it was the likes of a Malfoy._

_"So are we actually going to work on that homework or not?" she finally growled, eager to forget about her concerns, even if only for a few hours._

_"What's got your wand in a knot, Granger?" Draco asked, annoyance in his tone. He had enchanted a piece of parchment to dance around his head. He flicked it and it winced, quickly darting away from him and floating towards Hermione. "We'll get to it eventually."_

_She batted the spellbound parchment away. "I'm not in the mood, Malfoy."_

_"Well, if you'd like me to leave you all alone in the Forbidden Forest, I'll just be on my way then," he growled. He seized his books from the familiar, unusually large boulder._

_"No, don't," Hermione stopped him, closing her eyes. "I guess I'm just irritated."_

_"That much was obvious," he scoffed, dropping his books._

_She sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees, the wet forest floor dampening her bottom. Silently, she cursed herself for only melting the snow and not thinking to dry the spot as well. Distractions led to mistakes. She was not used to making mistakes. "It's just—well, Ron hasn't written me back. Harry's responded maybe twice. I suppose I worry."_

_Draco rolled his eyes and set the enchanted paper on fire. It became ash and sprinkled atop the glistening snow. "Surely, they're fine. And why should you care, anyway?"_

_"Well, I—"_

_"Weasley is a moron," he sneered. "You'd shoot a hex at me if I was as much of an absolute ass as he is. In fact, you've hexed me for less."_

_"I hexed you when you called me a Mudblood!" Hermione shouted. "It's entirely different!"_

_Draco clenched his jaw. He ran out of slick comebacks when she brought up his use of what most deemed to be the worst insult in the Wizarding world._

_"He's supposed to be my best friend," she whispered, sadly. She stood and wiped off the back of her robes. Pebbles and cold, damp soil had stuck to her. "I mean, I don't even care about the rest of it, but he's at least supposed to be my friend."_

_He knit his brows together. "Well, he isn't much of one. You've said it yourself."_

_Crossing her arms, Hermione leaned against the hibernating sycamore tree. "But we always made up_ before _, even after he ignores me for a long while. That's how it's always been."_

_Draco offered no more advice. The scowl on his face reminded her how much he detested discussions that revolved around the redhead._

_"I_ know _you hate him, but he's my friend. I'm supposed to be able to tell him_ anything _."_

_"Apparently not."_

_"And what makes you such an expert on Ron?"_

_Draco snorted. "You've told me plenty, Granger."_

_Hermione frowned. As much as she did not like to admit it, she and Draco had a better relationship than she did with Ron at that moment. They worked together on Potions and Arithmancy homework, they met in the Forbidden Forest, and they even had gotten drunk together. Toeing carefully, she often questioned his motivations. Yet, he had not given her a reason to distrust him. Her secrets remained between the two of them, as far as she was aware._

_"Why do you keep meeting me here?" she asked, trepidation in her tone. She wasn't sure if the question would upset him._

_"I need help with Arithmancy," he quickly answered. "And why do_ you _keep meeting_ me _here? I'm not exactly your best friend, Weasley."_

_Hermione thought for a moment. She knew the answer, but she was not sure how to express it to him. Being vulnerable in front of Draco Malfoy was one of her least favorite things to do. "Well," she started, carefully, "I think that we probably have a few things in common. There aren't exactly many people left that are our age."_

_"So you meet a Death Eater alone in the Forbidden Forest because we're in the same year? Come on, Granger. You can't think I'm_ that _stupid."_

_"You have a better reason, then?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "Why are you meeting with a Mudblood?"_

_His jaw stiffened. "I already told you. I need help with Arithmancy."_

_"_ Besides _that," Hermione pressed. "You could've asked Atlas Paisley for help but you asked_ me _. Why?_ _"_

_"It was convenient. Slughorn already had me helping you with Potions."_

_"So why not start getting help from Paisley once Slughorn absolved you of your duty? Why stick with_ me? _"_

_He was unresponsive. Instead, he stared at her with his cold, telling gaze._

_Hermione drew in a deep breath. "Fine then. I guess I don't have much reason to be here if you'll talk to me just about as much as Ron does." She stalked towards the boulder and grabbed her belongings. It hurt her to show Draco the same coldness that he showed her. Her friendship with Ron hung in the air, and without her bizarre amicability with Draco, she had nothing left but her thoughts and her studies._

_"Granger, don't make me say it!" he shouted after her._

_She halted for a moment, considering turning around. Instead, she kept walking, the snow crunching under her feet._

_"Hermione!" he shouted again. "Merlin, give me a second!"_

_She stopped in her tracks. He had used her first name. He never did that. Mystified, she turned on her heel, staring him down from over a hundred feet away. "I'm listening."_

_"You have to know," he groaned, running his hands through his hair. "I_ know _you know!"_

_"I'm not sure I do," she replied in a steely tone. She took a few steps forward, but still kept her distance. "Tell me."_

_"Perhaps you aren't as awful as I've always said," he started, slowly. "And Weasley—well, he's an idiot." Self-expression had never been one of Draco Malfoy's strong points. Besides, he did not plan to lose his apathetic reputation because of Hermione Granger._

_"What a compliment," Hermione muttered._

_Draco walked towards her, shaking his head. "Granger, you know as well as I do why we keep doing this. You're clever enough."_

_"I don't, though. I don't know why_ you _keep seeing_ me _. I can't read your mind, Draco. I'm not a Legilimens." Her gaze was fixed on the ground, her brow furrowed. She shook her head and began to walk away again. "Look, I'll probably see you around."_

Hermione blinked back tears. The memory simply hurt too much.


	10. Spontaneously

Hermione decided to meet with the Russian Minister for Magic alone. Her staff did not need to know about their luncheon, especially since they would ask what sparked it in the first place. Although Hermione disagreed with the way that he treated others, she knew that she could not afford another black mark on her record. It was important for her to try and remedy any foreign press before it became a problem.

A familiar tired-looking waitress grumbled under her breath as the Minister for Magic entered the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione, however, did not intend to mention the _Daily Prophet_ article that bought the onyx bracelet on the woman's wrist. She had other business to tend to.

"Excuse me," she started, "but do you know where the Russian Minister for Magic is staying? He advised that I meet him here."

"At the very end of the hallway down there—left side. The number seems to've fallen off it." the waitress mumbled, inconspicuously hiding her bracelet with her sleeve.

Hermione nodded and followed the waitress's directions. Once she reached the door, she inhaled sharply and knocked. Muffled shuffling could be heard from inside the room as Fyodor Sokolov slipped into his shoes and waddled to the door. Nervous, Hermione took a step back and waited for him to emerge.

After a few short moments, he opened his door and raised a thick, hairy eyebrow. He was tall and elderly, with a pewter beard that reached his bellybutton and wild, unkempt hair that tangled into the hood of his blue robes. He stared down at her in disgust, his mouth pulled into a sneer.

"Minister," he acknowledged her in his heavy Slavic accent, his hand still on the door handle. "I was not so sure you would show your face after the rather poor apology that your office sent."

"Well, it was not exactly an apology," Hermione replied, harshly. "We do not tolerate the use of that word here in the United Kingdom. Nevertheless, that does not excuse my lateness. For _that_ , I do apologize."

"Hmph! If you are just here to mock me and the wonderful people of my country, why did you show up at all?" he asked, angrily.

"I'm here to mock nobody," she assured him. "I'm here to buy you lunch and meet as we were originally scheduled to do."

He stared at her for a moment, sizing her up with his beady, black eyes. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he said, "I suppose that I am hungry."

The two of them wordlessly sauntered to the dining area and sat in a booth in the corner of the room. Deep, exhausted eyes stared them down as she waited for them to place their orders. Hermione ordered the steak and kidney pie with a cup of tea, like she usually did. Fyodor Sokolov ordered two beers and the roast hog.

Hermione cast a quick muffling charm, well aware of the waitress's open ears and loose lips. The Russian politician was apprehensive.

"I believe we initially planned to meet to discuss the current state of our two countries," he noted, "but since you've insulted me, this conversation may be a little different than we intended, yes?"

Lacing her fingers together, Hermione defended herself. "Nobody meant to insult you. I was late due to another meeting lasting a little longer than planned. I absolutely did not mean to be late, and I do apologize, again."

The waitress dropped off a cup of tea and two pints of beer. Fyodor took a deep swig of the frothy beverage. "Your note, then? You were quite frank. According to you, I am not welcome in your land."

"To be frank once more, we do not tolerate intolerance here. You called Madelyn a word that we cannot endorse," Hermione elaborated. "Mud— _that_ word—is not something that I can have being thrown around the headquarters of the Ministry of Magic. I'm sure you understand."

"'Mudblood' was the word you referred to in the letter. That is the English word for those born to _bessil'nyye lyudi_. It is what I learned when I learned English in school. Your letter suggested that it is an offensive term?" he inquired. "The red-haired girl did not seem happy when I said it, but it was not meant as an insult."

Carefully, Hermione asked, "What _exactly_ happened with her? She spared me the details."

He finished his pint. "I told her that you insulted Russia with your lateness and I excused myself. She asked what she could do to keep me. I told her that there was nothing that she could do, but she was quite insistent. I then said something like 'you are quite a pushy little Mudblood' and she became very upset. To us, it is not an insult but like saying 'you are quite a pushy little witch'. It is just a word to describe, not something to be ashamed of."

Laughing a little, Hermione replied, "Well, that makes more sense, then. We prefer the term ' _Muggle-born_ ', if anything at all. The word that you used is a bit of a slur here—nothing that you would want to say in front of others. I'm sorry for any miscommunication. We had not thought that it could be as simple as a language barrier. My assistant—she was—well, she was quite hurt, and admittedly, I was not pleased either. As I mentioned, it's quite an offensive term."

Fyodor nodded and took another drink of beer, this time from his second pint. The foam fizzled in his beard. "It would not be the first time a bad translation caused problems for me."

"I suppose that we can brush that under the rug, then?" she asked, hopefully.

"I am not sure what you mean."

The waitress stopped by their table and left their plates, lingering for a moment to undoubtedly hear their conversation. Hermione and the Russian Minister for Magic watched her until she finally stomped back to the bar, defeated.

"It means that we will move on and discuss more important matters—and that there will be no bad blood between us," Hermione explained. "I think that it was just a misunderstanding, yes?"

"Yes, a misunderstanding," he murmured, cutting into the roast hog in front of him. "I suppose the most important event in my country was the recent witch hunts. Several _bessil'nyye lyudi_ came after our people. It has been handled, but I suspect we will be much more careful for decades to come."

Hermione offered him a somber look. She had not heard of witch hunts happening since the seventeenth century. "I'm very sorry to hear that. If there is anything that the United Kingdom can do, please do feel free to contact me. We are in a good place right now to assist. There is little crime here and we have an overabundance of Aurors."

With a mouthful of roast hog, he grunted. "We do not need anybody's help. This is simply a meeting to discuss what is going on in our country. I have told you."

"Sure," Hermione mumbled. After an awkward pause, she added, "I'm glad you decided to meet with me."

He nodded. "It is my job."

The two of them ate together quietly for half an hour, occasionally making small talk but mostly keeping to themselves. Hermione quickly gathered that the Russian Minister for Magic was the isolated type and that he preferred to keep his meetings short and to the point. Though it may have seemed awkward to onlookers, the silence between them was oddly pleasant. It was the first carefree meal that she had eaten with a man in months, even if he was an unlikely individual to share lunch with. By the end of the meal, she found herself asking him to return any time.

* * *

Headquarters had been calmer than usual in the week that followed her short meeting with Fyodor Sokolov. After Harry Potter caught a rather prolific werewolf, that had become the most important story to follow for the _Daily Prophet_. Relieved, Hermione was able to do her work without any interruptions.

While she was glad that work was much less stressful, she missed the distraction. She and Ron had not slept in the same bed in more than a week and the holidays were quickly approaching. Her children would be coming home the following week, looking for the comfort and relaxation of being home after a long term of difficult classes. However, their Godric's Hollow home had become a warzone and every word was ammunition. Fearing for their mental health, she was too preoccupied to focus on work.

"Ma'am?" Madelyn asked for the second time.

"I'm sorry, Madelyn. What did you ask?" Hermione inquired, attempting to pull her mind back to the issue at hand. She could not recall what they had been discussing.

"I asked if you've looked over the Jameson paperwork yet," Madelyn summarized. "Mrs. Jameson is here and she would like to know when she can ask the Aurors to leave the premises."

"Oh, yes," Hermione replied, her face red. She sorted through the many papers strewn across her desk until she finally found the parchment Madelyn was referring to. "Yes, the Jameson property. I've signed here and set the date for tomorrow to give the Auror team time to collect their things. The Dementors left the property well over six months ago, so they have no reason to be bothering her anymore. I'm surprised this wasn't resolved sooner."

Madelyn nodded and collected the paperwork. She left the Minister's office and instead of sifting through the rest of her paperwork, Hermione laced her fingers together and reflected on an argument that she had had with Ron the previous evening.

The argument was not unique. In fact, it felt like it was the same argument that they had every day. He was angry that she spent extra time at work and she was angry that the house was filthy. She had surrendered, knowing quite well that Ron would never listen to her when he was under the influence of alcohol. It was easier for her to keep her distance and reminisce about a time when she was happier.

The bittersweet reminder that she hid in an old Arithmancy book had become her solace.

* * *

An hour passed and Hermione still had accomplished little to nothing, unable to focus on the dozens of parchments that she needed to sign. Her thoughts were entangled with Ron, her children, and Draco Malfoy.

Her stomach churned as she remembered her most recent meeting with the cunning Slytherin. As they usually had as of late, they left on an awkward note. At the time, Hermione was determined not to see him again, at least not alone. Every moment she spent with him led to even more confusion, and with her difficult situation at home, she needed to feel in control of her thoughts. Yet, the more time that she spent trying to blame her uncertainty on Draco, the more that she realized he had done nothing but try to help her. It was Ron that had given her that sinking feeling of insecurity. It was Ron that made her worry about her children. It was Ron that made her feel insignificant.

Admittedly, she was still curious about the favor that the wealthy pure-blood had mentioned. It niggled at her, but it was far from the only thing on her mind.

The school year that she spent with Draco had been more rewarding than twenty years with Ron, because even through his cold, calculating exterior, Hermione knew that he cared about her well-being. Ron, on the other hand, was a shell of his sour aversion towards her. He had been for quite a long time.

She did not know what it was that she was looking for, but she had an inkling that Draco could help her find it. Feeling a sudden sense of resolve, she tapped her wand on her desk. Three taps would send Madelyn a signal to enter her office as discreetly as possible.

It was only seconds until Madelyn opened her door and tiptoed inside. The Minister did not often send her the signal, but when she did, she was careful not to be seen or heard on her way to her office.

"Madelyn," Hermione noted, inhaling sharply. "I need you to find some information for me. It will take some digging, but if anyone asks what you're doing, tell them I sent you and that it's classified. Do you understand?"

Madelyn looked nervous. Keeping secrets had never been her strong suit. Nevertheless, she nodded. "Yes, Minister."

Hermione studied her eyes for a moment. "I mean it, Madelyn. This is strictly between you and me. This is—well, it's a personal matter."

Madelyn was skeptical, but she was loyal to the Minister. It was her job. "Yes, Minister. I understand."

"Okay, then. Well, Madelyn, I need the current address of someone you may have heard about, recently. He's—er—he's not someone that I would usually see, but it seems that recent events have given me reason to visit with him again. Just to reiterate, it is _very_ important that you keep this between us. His name is—"

"Draco Malfoy," Madelyn whispered, breathily. "Minister, but he's a-a—"

"It has been twenty years since he has done _anything_ that would even _remotely_ earn him that foul title!" Hermione spat, gritting her teeth. "Please, if you would visit the archives and bring me his address as soon as possible—and cancel all of my meetings for tomorrow. I'll need the entire day to myself to sort through this—well, the personal matter that I mentioned."

Madelyn swallowed hard and nodded. It was not her place to argue with the Minister for Magic, even if she did not think that she was making a good decision.

* * *

It had been nearly two and a half decades since Hermione had chewed on her fingernails, but as she sat in her office, that was all that she could do. Her mind wandered to the worst possibilities as she waited for Madelyn to return with the address that she had requested. As hours went by, her stomach churned. Part of her wondered if she was making a terrible mistake.

Madelyn had never been the best at keeping secrets, but in the past, Hermione had not often needed her to do so. She was an honest world leader, and renowned for it. If the magical folk of the United Kingdom knew that she had spent the last month sneaking around with a Death Eater, they might have questioned her position.

Finally, there were three taps on her door and the small voice that she knew so well. Hurriedly, Hermione urged her to come inside. Madelyn chewed on her lip and closed the door behind her, nervously clutching onto a piece of parchment. She still was unsure why the Minister needed to meet with Draco Malfoy.

"Thank you, Madelyn," Hermione said, reaching for the parchment. "You may leave that with me."

Madelyn held onto the paper for a long moment, not responding to her boss.

"Did you hear me? I'll be taking that now," Hermione insisted, snapping her fingers.

"Minister, are you sure you should be meeting with someone like—well, like _him?_ " Madelyn asked in a small voice. "When I had to go through the archives, I found his record and I hate to say it but h-he—" She sighed. "—he has done some dreadful things. I don't know if you should be meeting him alone so often. What if something happens to you? Am I allowed to tell someone where you went?"

Hermione gave her a dark look. " _No one_ is to know where I am. Do you understand me, Madelyn? This is important."

Madelyn drew in a deep, uncomfortable breath. "Yes, Minister." With those words, she dropped the parchment on Hermione's desk and swallowed hard. "Can I be excused now?"

Hermione did not even look at her as she waved her away. Somberly, Madelyn left the office and closed the door behind her, overwhelmed by worry.

Reading the address to herself, Hermione realized that she was only several hours away from seeing the man that had suddenly caused her to ask herself so many, many questions. Half of her felt sick, but the other half could hardly contain her excitement.

* * *

The tiny village of Willow Ale Court was not far from Godric's Hollow. The sleepy residents were mostly elderly folk, both magical and not, that had retired there to escape from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world. Among the many small cottages, there was a larger one that was tucked in the back of the community. The front yard was emerald green and adorned with apple and sycamore trees, all of which were barren and dead due to the incoming winter. Unlike most of the cottages, the person that lived inside was not very old at all.

Draco Malfoy brewed his morning tea, his obsidian robes wrapped around him and his hair standing in all directions. It was the side of him that others rarely saw. He looked nothing less than pristine in public, but as he had not yet performed his morning rituals, he looked like most everyone did when they first awoke.

He enjoyed his time at the cottage, as there were no memories of his dark family history or his late wife. The photographs and the portraits did not haunt him as he meandered around the premises. Plus, it felt much less empty than Malfoy Manor. There was enough room for himself, for Scorpius, and his hobbies, and at his age, that was all that he needed.

The tea kettle hissed and he waved his wand to pour himself a cup from afar. Just as he raised his wand a second time to coax the cup to the table, there was an unexpected knock at the door.

Groaning to himself, he stood, hoping that it was not one of his parents. While he could have used his wand, his mother or father would scold him for not answering the door, personally. They often visited him after Astoria died, urging him to remarry a pure-blood that lived up to his father's unattainable standards. Little did they know, there was only one woman that had piqued his interest and she was far from pure-blooded.

He shuffled towards the door, tying his robe securely to avoid any unfortunate incidents. With a heavy sigh, he opened it, expecting the worst. To his surprise, he was met with two shining brown eyes and an unsure smile.

"Good morning, Draco."


	11. Mendacity

Two small cups of tea sat on the walnut dining room table, one in front of a slender, blond man and the other in front of a puzzled, umber-eyed woman. She stirred sugar into the teacup, her eyes fixed on the hot beverage as it swirled around her tiny silver spoon. If someone had asked her a month ago, she never would have thought she would be sitting with the man in his cottage.

"Sorry for the mess," Draco murmured, blowing on the hot tea. "I wasn't expecting company."

Hermione looked around the room. It was spotless, sans the tea kettle on the countertop and the two cups in front of them. She expected nothing less from her orderly ex-lover, as he had always presented himself as nothing short of immaculate. It only reminded her how untidy her husband was.

"I'd hardly call this a mess," Hermione laughed. "You should see _my_ house."

Draco had a snide comment prepared, but instead, he held his tongue and laced his fingers together. "So what brings you here so early, Granger?"

It was the question that Hermione had been dreading. Deep inside her heart, she knew the answer, but she could not tell him that he made her rethink her marriage. Suddenly, the sense of resolve that she had felt the day before was subsiding. She was left only with confusion.

"Well, Ron and I aren't exactly getting along as well as I'd like," she started, slowly. "I-I don't mean to press on a sore spot, but I thought you may have some advice. You mentioned that you and Astoria used to have some issues..." She trailed off, realizing how insensitive she was being at the mention of his late wife. "I'm so sorry, Draco... I didn't mean—"

He waved away the notion that she had said something offensive. "It's fine."

Hermione crossed her ankles under the table, awkwardly leaning forward on the chair. "I guess I'm asking how you two learned to get along."

Draco cocked an eyebrow. Despite all the time that had passed, he could still read her face. Everything from her discomfort to her uncertainty told him that she was not being forthright with him, and due to the strained look on her face, he knew why.

"She was dying," he reminded her in a matter-of-fact tone. "It's difficult to argue with someone when they're dying. I don't know if you've tried it, but they don't exactly have much to discuss unless you include meals and painkilling potions."

Hermione chewed on her lip. The night before, she had stayed awake, thinking about how she was going to direct their conversation in order to avoid raising his suspicions. Insofar, it was not going at all how she planned. Draco could read her like a book.

"Look, Granger, as much as I'd like to sit here and discuss me and my dead wife's marital problems, I don't think that's why you're here this morning," Malfoy assumed. "Tell me your actual intentions and maybe we'll get somewhere."

Hermione averted her gaze. "I am."

He leaned back in his chair and combed through his feathery blond hair with his fingers, trying to manage the bed-head he never intended for anyone to see. Still adorned in his silk robes from his long slumber, he almost felt underdressed in front of the woman that had once seen every inch of him.

"And you're sure there's nothing else you'd like to talk about?" he asked, distractedly, still fixing his mane.

Still unable to look at him, Hermione drank a bit of her tea. "I'm sure."

Draco nodded, acutely aware that she would leave if he pressed her any further. "Alright. Go on, then."

She sighed. "I-I feel like everything is getting worse and with the holidays coming up, I worry about the kids." She choked back tears. "I-I have a really bad feeling about them coming home, considering Ron's...state. I just—I just don't know how to talk to him about the drinking. How should I—how should I approach that?"

Alcoholism was not a subject that Malfoy was familiar with, and if he had not known better, he would have told Hermione that he didn't know how to help. Nevertheless, she was not being honest with him, and he could tell. She didn't want him to teach her how to talk to her drunk of a husband. She wanted to know that she wouldn't be alone if she ever found the courage to leave him.

"He's drinking more, then."

Hermione nodded, blinking back tears again. "More than the last time they saw him, yes. My schedule is so hectic with work and the holidays and I just don't know if they should be left alone with him while they're off school. Even in summer, I know he drove them absolutely mad, and that was when I was able to be home more often. The Ministry is easily twice as busy since then with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement arresting everyone and their owl." She took a deep breath. "I don't know how to protect them from him anymore."

Draco flared his nostrils and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. He laced his hands together and rested his chin atop them. "I've told you before that Scorpius spends holidays at my parents'. It's for him more than it is for them. I think the change makes him think about his mother less. Maybe in a few years, he'll spend it with me again, but for now, it's been the best arrangement. Have you considered something like that, even if it's just temporary?"

It was the best advice he could muster.

The notion of not seeing her Rose and Hugo during their holiday made Hermione feel sick to her stomach. "I haven't thought about it."

He nodded and finished his tea. "Well, if things are as bad as you say, perhaps it's time to."

She nodded, slowly, her heart aching as she thought about not spending those wonderful two weeks with her children. Mrs. Weasley would gladly take them, but there was a selfish part of her that did not want to ask. Instead of responding, she finished the rest of her tea. Too many thoughts were rushing through her head.

"Do you mind if I excuse myself for just a moment?" he asked, standing and fixing his robe. "I need to grab my wand to tidy the dishes."

Little did Hermione know, he already had his wand. He was merely too embarrassed to tell her that he wanted to change into more fitting attire.

She reached for her wand. "Oh, I don't mind—"

He shook his head. "Nonsense. You're a guest."

With that, he left the room and slipped through the sitting room towards the short hallway. Hermione used the opportunity to examine her surroundings from her seat at the polished, walnut table. His small home was cozy, with rocks, granite countertops, and unsoiled, dark hardwood flooring. The walls were adorned in French floral wallpaper that appeared to have seen better days, but it was clean. She admired the tiny cottage. It was much more modest than the ostentatious Malfoy Manor.

Her stomach churned as she waited for him. Part of her wished that she had never shown up on his doorstep. Every time that she saw him, she left feeling vulnerable and craving more time with him. It was not the type of interaction that would save her marriage, but maybe saving her marriage was not what she wanted to do anymore.

"Sorry about that," Draco apologized, emerging from the hallway. He was fully dressed in his usual all-black attire. He sat down and waved his wand, leaving the cups and their respective saucers clean and ready to be put away. The kitchen cupboard doors swung open and the dishes neatly stacked themselves inside.

"No, it's no problem," Hermione replied. She rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry for showing up today. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't be sorry. There's a reason you're here and you may not want to talk about it, but we both know what that reason is," he chimed, airily. "You may as well just admit it."

Even though she tried to hide her emotions, Hermione knew that Draco could read her body language. She had never been able to keep her composure when she was being mendacious, especially not when it came to the handsome Malfoy. While all that she disclosed had been true, she was still lying by omission. The glint in his grey eyes told her that he knew it. Nevertheless, she could never admit to her constant comparisons between him and Ron. As soon as he knew the truth, there would be no going back.

Trying to pretend that he did not know what he meant, she said, "Yes, I suppose it's nice to have someone to talk to since Ron and I still aren't getting along. So thank you for that. I was—I was wrong to write you off." She quickly added, "As a friend, I mean."

He stared at her, waiting for more.

Sweating, she continued, "I mean, I have the children and work to worry about and he's been in the paper and he—well, he needs—"

Draco scoffed. "Frankly, I don't care what Weasley needs. The real question is: what do _you_ need?"

Scarlet in the face, she stammered, "W-well, I n-need him. To do better."

He observed her. She was uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and wringing her hands in an awkward fashion. Eventually, she would tell him everything that she wanted to say, but he knew it would have to be on her terms. Unfortunately, his arrogance and impatience were oftentimes hard to conceal.

"I see," he finally managed, quickly pressing his lips before he said anything else.

She nodded, flicking a tear away from under her eye. "We don't even sleep in the same room, anymore. He stays on the couch and drinks until he passes out. I sleep in the bedroom—well, if I'm being honest, I don't exactly get much sleep. I can't imagine anyone would if they were in my position."

Draco clenched his jaw, swallowing his intrinsic haughtiness. "And how do you plan on sorting that out?"

Frazzled, Hermione ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing her temples with her palms. "I don't _know_ , Draco. That's why I came to you for help. All I know is that I don't want to be so stressed out that he gives me a stroke and I die because he can't pronounce the healing spell!"

Draco drew in a deep breath, still struggling not to say what he wanted to tell her. "Granger, I really want you to think about this. Why are you telling _me_ this instead of Potter or Weasley's sister?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but she knew that he knew the real reason, no matter what she said. Instead of lying, she chewed on her thumbnail, her eyes fixed just to the left of him. She was conscious of his deep, perceptive stare.

The discomfited silence between them lasted a few moments before Draco cleared his throat. "Aren't you supposed to be at work right now?"

Her posture was suddenly stiff. "My assistant penciled this in."

"Understood," he muttered. "I suspect that's how you found this address—your connections with the Ministry?"

Still clearly uncomfortable, she replied, "Yes, all of that information is in the archives."

Draco nodded. She had met with him a few times, but never had she went out of her way to find him. He was always chasing after her. Yet that day, for the first time, she had come to him without an invitation. They had come so close to mutual sincerity. "Last time I saw you, you told me you'd prefer not to see me again. In fact, I think you said something similar the time before that as well. Interesting that you keep changing your mind."

Hermione laughed, cognizant of the fact that she had once again fallen victim to his observant nature. "I suppose that 'interesting' is a word for it."

"Indeed." His eyes could have bore a hole into her.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be a bother," Hermione muttered, standing to retreat.

"Don't," Draco growled. "You're not a bother. Sit."

Hermione obeyed. "What is that look for then?"

"Me waiting for the truth."

"I've told you the truth."

"Hardly."

"Then what _is_ the truth, Draco?" she challenged. Half of her wanted him to back down. The other half of her wanted so desperately for him to say the words so she did not have to. "Since you know so much."

"It's hardly my job to save Gryffindors from their own cowardice, but here we are, aren't we?" he hissed. "Fine then. You want me to say it for you? I will. The truth is, _Granger_ , that you know that Weasley is an absolute idiot and you came here to see me because you haven't stopped comparing the two of us since you and I had lunch a few weeks ago. I think you ought to just be honest with yourself. It will save us both some time. Weasley too, if you think about it."

Inwardly, he cursed himself for saying anything. Even though she had pressed him, she wasn't ready to hear it out loud—not from him, anyway. Once upon a time, pointing out the obvious helped him get his way, but it was not quite so easy when it came to his unique situation with the Minister for Magic. She had always been stubborn, even when they were younger. Since she had gotten married, she had only grown to be more obstinate.

"This was a mistake," Hermione muttered, getting to her feet. She pushed in her chair, refusing to meet his eyes.

"This is no more a mistake than the last time or the time before that," Draco argued, also standing.

Hermione shook her head. "I think I'll be heading home now. Thank you for the tea."

Before he could respond, she had Apparated.

* * *

Rather than going back to the office, Hermione went home, just like she said she was. Mentally, she scolded herself for visiting Draco Malfoy again. Although she tried, she could lie to him less than she could lie to herself.

Each time that she saw him, it was out of pure selfishness. Even the lie that she told herself was selfish. She had no right to ask him about his relationship with his deceased wife. She had no right to keep entering his life, only to withdraw herself as quickly as she arrived. Yet, his grey, stormy eyes sparked the excitement that she hungered to feel again. Her stomach fluttered when his cool voice spoke her name, even if it was only her surname. The more time she spent with him, the worse the consequences would become. For her children, she needed to focus on bettering her marriage, and visiting Draco Malfoy would only do the opposite.

"Hey!" she shouted in an overly sweet voice, hoping to overcompensate for the guilt that she felt. She hung up her jacket and looked around the living room. "Ron?"

"In here!" he shouted back from the loo.

Hermione walked down the hallway, her shoes still on, and saw that Ron's trousers were dropped. Unfortunately for her, he had left the door wide open. She made a face as the stench hit her nostrils.

"That's disgusting, Ron. Close the door!"

"Well, you're home early," he retorted, reaching forward for the door. His fingers were only centimeters too short. He had a bottle of firewhisky with him on the edge of the bathtub. After a quick drink, he looked up at her. "How'd work let you off so quick?"

Anxiously, Hermione cleared her throat. "Cornish pixie infestation. Some idiot on the second floor let them loose so we had to send in a team. I'll um—I'll let you get back to it." She closed the door for him and walked back into the living room.

As she plopped down onto the sofa, her heart beat rapidly. Looking her husband in the eye and lying was something she found herself doing more and more as of late. Sadly, Draco read her signals better than Ron did. Her husband accepted her answers in stride before continuing about his business, whether it was using the restroom, drinking, eating, or working on a new product. Draco, on the other hand, asked the uncomfortable questions. Bizarrely enough, Hermione preferred the discomfort.

Although she was desperate to stop comparing the two of them, she had done it again. Draco had seen the situation for what it was. He had been right when he claimed that she was comparing him to Ron. Guilt addled her entire being as she lay on her side and let her tears fall. Never did she mean to feel how she felt. Never did she mean to become the type of woman that visited a man behind her husband's back.

"Can you make some breakfast, dear?" he bellowed from the bathroom, the door still closed. "I'll be pretty hungry after my stomach's emptied all this out!"

She contorted her face in disgust and rolled off of the sofa. The ice box was nearly empty, but she found some bacon towards the bottom. With a heavy sigh, she put it on a plate and cast a heating charm. As the crispy meat stared back at her, she knew that her life had to change. If it didn't, she and Ron would not have much time left.


	12. Socially

The Minister for Magic was just as distracted at work as she had been at home. As the holidays quickly approached, her solution for the children became much more urgent. Perhaps, Draco Malfoy had been correct. Perhaps, she needed to ask Mrs. Weasley if they could stay with her.

The upcoming holiday also meant that she would have to make the traditional appearances. That included raising the star on the Hogsmeade Christmas tree, sending out holiday cards to ambassadors all over the world, and last but not least, going to the annual Christmas gala. The gala raised Galleons for struggling magical families all over the United Kingdom, making it one of the most important events for the Minister's public relations. Regrettably, she was expected to bring her husband.

"Here it is, Minister!" Madelyn exclaimed, rolling a rack into Hermione Granger's office. She closed the door behind her and gestured a long, zipped-up bag.

Hermione hurried to the rack, excited to see the dress she would be wearing to the gala. For the first time since visiting Draco Malfoy at his cottage, she was not thinking about him, her children, or Ron. She was only thinking about the celebration and how lovely the dress was going to be. Lavish gowns always made her giddy. After all, it was an excuse to fix herself up. She had never been one to put on much makeup or do anything with her hair, but once in awhile, it was nice.

As she unzipped it, she was nearly blinded by the golden sequins. She gasped, looking over the long sleeves that started just below the shoulder. The neckline was high-cut and elegant, glimmering from the top to the middle of the wide skirt. It would have reached the floor if it was not hanging from the tall rolling rack. As the sequins gradually dissipated, they met an abyss of striking satin black.

"This is incredible," Hermione breathed, running her fingers along the sleeves. "Who designed this?"

"Abraham Aynseworth," Madelyn replied.

"The squib?" Hermione asked, incredulously. "This is quite exquisite work to not have used magic."

"He dresses the stars," Madelyn said with a shrug. "It seemed only fitting that he would dress the most beautiful Minister for Magic of all time."

Hermione's face flushed. "Oh, you're too kind." She zipped the bag again, determined not to wrinkle or stain the work of art. "Please do send him a thank you. It's lovely."

Madelyn nodded. "Mr. Weasley's dress robes are nearly finished as well. We expect to have them in next week from Madam Malkin's."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Madelyn. Please keep it somewhere safe for now. I wouldn't want it to get ruined."

After quickly mumbling in agreement, Madelyn rolled the rack out of the room, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts. As soon as the dress was out of sight, all of her problems came back to haunt her.  
  


* * *

  
With a prepackaged Cauldron Cake in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, Ron was enjoying his Saturday alone. Hermione had left to make a public appearance in Diagon Alley, leaving him to work on his potion. As per usual, he had become distracted. There were alcohol and sweets in the house, and he could deny himself neither.

As he munched on the Cauldron Cake, he leaned back on the sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table. His bulging stomach poked out from underneath the old tee shirt that he wore, showing off a trail of ginger hairs and chocolate crumbs. The time that he spent alone was the time that he valued the most. Nobody could tell him what to do, how to look, what to drink, or what to eat. To Ron, being alone was nothing short of paradise.

Just as he tipped his beer back to empty it down his gullet, he heard a small _pop!_ and saw a flash of bushy hair. Seemingly exasperated, Hermione hung up her coat and kicked off her shoes.

"It was only supposed to be an hour but somehow it turned into _three_ ," she growled. "I don't know how they expect me to be ready for this gala in less than an hour!"

Ron set the empty beer bottle on the table, inwardly cursing Hermione. If she had not been there, he would have thrown it on the floor with no repercussions, though he would never admit that. "Gala? What gala?"

"Don't tell me you forgot!" she exclaimed, wordlessly enchanting her makeup to come to apply itself to her face. "Ronald, there are dress robes hanging in the bedroom. Have you showered?"

"Oh, I _just_ had to wear those damn things!" he complained. "Do I really have to go?"

" _Yes_ , Ron!" She coughed as powder clouded her face. "They had these robes made especially for you and everyone expects you to be there. I'll look like a complete idiot if you don't come."

With a heavy sigh, Ron wished to himself that she had not come home. He was enjoying himself before she arrived, drinking a figgy stout and eating his favorite snack. Whenever his wife was around, he felt like he was walking on eggshells, unable to take pleasure in his usual amusements. He was aware that he was not the most responsible person, but he did not like being reminded every few minutes.

Mumbling under his breath, he trudged towards the bedroom and walked inside. It was the first time in quite a while that he had entered the room, as he usually summoned his clothes whenever he finally decided to change. The room that he once shared with his wife felt foreign. It was strangely neat, with the bed made and the dresser drawers fully closed. There were no pairs of knickers or dirty sweatshirts strewn across the floor or tangled amongst the bedding. It was a testament to his wife's maturity, while its former state was a testament to his.

There was a rack in the corner of the room with two long, zipped bags. He approached them and unzipped one before being blinded by golden sequins. Assuming that the sequins belonged to Hermione's dress, he zipped it back up and unzipped the other. He grumbled as he saw the black robes. Wearing itchy robes and making small talk with his wife's colleagues was the last way that he wanted to spend his evening.  
  


* * *

  
The gala was glitzier than the previous year's. They hosted the event in Courtroom Ten, one of the largest courtrooms in the building and the perfect location for a party. Enchanted snow glistened in the air, falling just short of everyone's heads, kissing the glimmering gold and black garland hanging upon the walls. A live band played soft jazz beside the bar, where a half-giant was serving wine and expensive cocktails. Most importantly, the room was full of the most powerful witches and wizards in the entire United Kingdom, and they all wanted to speak with the Minister for Magic.

"You look lovely, Minister, just lovely," Ardus Castle kissed her hand.

Slightly revolted, Hermione jerked her hand away and let it rest against her side. "Yes, thank you, Ardus. I'm so glad you were able to make it."

"Yes well, the Ministry doesn't exactly hold events in Bannockburn," he noted, scratching his head. Dandruff fell from his thick, greying hair, blanketing his black dress robes. "It's never convenient to come here, but always worth visiting to see your beauty in person."

Awkwardly, Hermione mumbled, "Yes, well, so glad that you came. Have you met my husband, Ron?"

Ron had been staring at the dancing snowflakes, sipping on a lime mixed drink. She seized him by the arm and dragged him close to her, wondering where his obnoxious sense of jealousy had gone when she needed it the most.

"No, I haven't," Ardus murmured. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Granger. I uh—I suppose I should make my rounds."

Ardus slipped away into the crowd, looking for another effeminate hand to kiss. Ron wrinkled his brow, his lips wrapped around the tiny straw in his drink as he sucked down the alcoholic elixir.

"Mr. Granger? See Hermione, this is what happens when you decide to keep your maiden name," he nagged. After an awkward pause, he added, "Seemed like a weird chap."

Hermione sighed. "He is. Can you maybe try to act at least a _little_ interested?"

"I'm interested!" he lied before chasing the last few drops of his drink with the small black straw.

Hermione grabbed his hand, weaving through the crowd until she was, to her misfortune, standing in front of the woman she had been most nervous to speak to that night. Since Harry was on a mission on Brother Isle, she did not have the luxury of finding a corner and chatting with Ginny and him for the entire evening. Instead, she had to face the colleagues that made her the most nervous. Right then, that colleague was Joslyn Horos.

Hoping to avoid her, Hermione tried to pull Ron away, but it was to no avail. Joslyn noticed her before she could make her escape.

"Minister!" Joslyn exclaimed, her American voice haughty as she kissed each of Hermione's cheeks, staining them with bright red lipstick. She lightly touched a tall woman's back with a gloved hand as Hermione discreetly grabbed her wand to erase the crimson marks. In Joslyn's other hand was a glittering glass of Prosecco, one of the more expensive drinks on the menu. "Surely, you remember my wife, Asha."

Nervously, Hermione shook Asha's elegant, bejeweled hand. Her dark hair was slicked back and her lips were the color of mulled wine. Much like her wife, her lashes were long and full, shading intimidating, dark eyes.

" _Enchantée_ ," Asha said. "I believe we met at the last one of these little get-togethers."

"Yes, I do believe we did," Hermione murmured, gracelessly.

"Ah! This must be Ronald," Joslyn pointed out, gesturing Ron. She gave him a wink. "An empty glass, I see. Asha, do you mind taking Ronald for another? The Minister and I have some business."

Even though Hermione wanted to protest, she knew that she couldn't. She flashed an awkward smile as the butterscotch-skinned woman tugged her husband to the bar, leaving her alone with Joslyn.

"He sure is quiet," Joslyn quipped, pressing a thoughtful thumb and forefinger against her chin. "I imagine you've had to have a few talks with him, judging by the articles I saw a few weeks ago."

Hermione clenched her jaw. "Yes. You would be right."

Joslyn nodded. She took a sip of Prosecco and fixed her golden glove. "So, I was wondering if you had had time to review my proposition."

"Yes, of course," Hermione replied. "Unfortunately—um—I need to run it by a few other people before I can sign off on it."

"Sure, of course. I was just hoping it could be done before the year is out," Joslyn coaxed. "You see, Asha and myself are going to be heading to Croatia for a few months soon and I'd like to have it off my desk before we do."

Hermione coolly asked, "Why the rush? The tree will be there when you get back."

"Yes, but you know how these things work," Joslyn whispered. "The company is on a bit of a tight schedule if they're going to beat their Chinese competitors. Surely, there's _some_ way that we could speed this up. I can make it worth your while."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to bribe me."

The Minister for Magic did not plan on signing her proposition, but she wanted to wait until the gala was finished to inform her. Joslyn Horos was the daughter of Ralph Horos, owner of a rather lucrative broom company in Derry. Unfortunately, he had taken interest in harvesting a thousand-year-old Whomping Willow in Edinburgh for a limited line of broomsticks. Hermione did not intend on letting him do that.

"Oh, don't be silly," Joslyn chuckled. "I would never."

"I would hope not," Hermione said, darkly. "I could easily report this, Joslyn."

She smiled, batting her thick eyelashes. "You know, I suppose that you could. I don't see you doing that, though. We _are_ friends, aren't we?"

"Sure," Hermione replied, suspiciously. "Friends."

Joslyn nodded, pushing a strand of black hair away from her face. "Good, good. I have a feeling we'll talk about this again before the night is out."

"It wouldn't surprise me if you brought it back up," Hermione mumbled.

They stood in silence for a long while, Hermione's eyes darting between the devious woman to her left and her husband who was easily on his sixth glass of wine. Asha's hand was on his thigh as she laughed, loudly praising him for being "just so funny". A pang of jealousy ran through Hermione's veins as she observed the two of them at the bar. She wondered if that was how Ron felt when she mentioned Draco.

Asha and Ron started heading back from the bar, Ron stumbling each step of the way. Hermione noticed Asha give Joslyn a conniving glance. Getting Ron drunk had been part of their plan all along.

"What kind o' wine is this?" Ron slurred, bottle in hand. "Strong, innit?"

"Yes, _very_ ," Asha pandered. She met eyes with Joslyn again. "I bought him the _entire_ bottle. The bartender just couldn't keep up with him."

"Is that so?" Joslyn asked, smirking. "Well, Minister, it seems that your husband knows how to have a good time. How about we get you a glass and join in on the fun?"

Hermione noticed that Ron's gaze was fixed on Asha as he tossed the bottle back again. He swayed, drunkenly in place, ogling the tall woman. Angrily, Hermione knit her brows together.

"Ronald, you know, I think I saw Virgil," she said, quickly, after seeing her elderly colleague from across the room. "I'd love for you to meet him."

"I was speaking with Asha, thanks," he slurred, loosening his bowtie. "So what's this wine, called again?"

Asha giggled. "It's an elderflower wine—Peninsula Blanc. It's imported from America."

The two of them continued to softly flirt and Hermione felt her face becoming violet with rage. Then, she noticed that Joslyn was rummaging through her small handbag. Familiar with bottomless handbags, Hermione knew that she and her wife were plotting something. As soon as she saw the lens of a camera, she seized Ron's hand and dragged him to the other side of the room.

"I told you not to get too drunk," she scolded through gritted teeth. She knew that she could not be angry with him for being enamored by Asha, considering her visits with Draco Malfoy, but she still was hurt.

"I was actually having a good time," he pointed out, taking a swig from the bottle. He tried to take another glance at Asha, but Hermione had pulled him deep into the crowd.

"Yes, _too_ good of a time," she hissed. "They were trying to _blackmail_ me."

He frowned. "Asha wouldn't do that."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione flicked her wand at the bottle in his hand. It disappeared into thin air, leaving her husband annoyed. Nevertheless, she could not afford any more bad press. She needed the gala to go well.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"You're drunk."

"It's called _social_ drinking."

Hermione shook her head. "I wouldn't call that social drinking, Ron. Now, can you _please_ just act sober for a few moments? That's Virgil."

Ron let out a belch, earning him several glares, including one from Hermione. No matter how many times she asked him to behave at Ministry events, he never seemed to be able to manage it.

"Sorry," he grumbled. "Okay, sober. Got it."

Hermione nodded and approached the grey man. "Virgil!" she exclaimed, tugging Ron towards the lanky senior.

"Minister," he wheezed, reaching out to shake her hand. "Mr. Weasley, I presume?"

Ron stared at the wrinkled hand before him, rocking on his heels as the room spun. Hermione elbowed him.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." He shook Virgil's hand. "Ron Weasley."

Virgil nodded. "Virgil Clearwater from the Pest Advisory Bureau."

Ron frowned. "Clearwater? Are you related to Penelope Clearwater?"

"You know Penelope?" Virgil asked, straightening his back. "She's my great-niece. I've known her since she was only this high." He bent over, holding an arthritic hand to his knee.

"I imagine she was more pleasant back then," Ron laughed.

Hermione glared at him, hoping that Virgil was too senile to make much of Ron's discourteous comment.

"Excuse me?" Virgil asked, heatedly. "When has my Penelope ever _not_ been pleasant?"

Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione gave her husband a pleading look. "Ron was making a joke. It was in poor taste, _wasn't_ it, Ronald?"

Ron shrugged, distractedly. Asha had come back into his view from afar and he had hardly heard his wife's question. "Yeah, sure. If you say so."

Virgil pulled his face into a sneer, clearly unconvinced. "Interesting to see what kind of company you keep, Minister."

"Virgil, I'm so sorry—"

He shook his head and walked away. Hermione turned to Ron, her eyes fiery with rage. She always expected him to act foolishly, but never did she think he would say something like that to one of her colleagues.

"Ronald, how _could_ you? This is a _professional_ event!" she seethed. "I have to come back in on Monday and _see_ these people!"

He gave her a dark look. "Well, I was gettin' on with Asha and Joslyn just fine, but for some reason, you decided to bring me over here."

"Don't you _dare_ blame this on me," she snarled. "For your information, Asha was getting you drunk so Joslyn could take pictures of you and blackmail me into letting them destroy a rare Whomping Willow for some bloody brooms!"

"What's so wrong with knocking down a Whomping Willow? You know as well as I do that they're a bloody nuisance."

"Ron, they're rare. I'm not just going to sign off on something so vile. Besides, that's not the point. The point is that you don't know how to act at these things," she explained. "I just needed you to stay _somewhat_ sober tonight and you couldn't even manage that."

"I was being social like you always ask me to!" he argued, throwing his hands up. He earned several glances from nearby partygoers, leaving Hermione to smile and waggle her fingers at them. "You're just mad I was talking to an attractive woman."

" _That's_ what you think this is about?" she breathed, furiously. "Ron, she's _gay!_ Of course that wouldn't make me mad! You didn't have a chance with her!"

"I think I'm going to go home."

"What? No, Ron, you can't. I'm sorry for whatever I said, but we still have to take pictures and dance," she begged. "Look, I'll smooth things over with Virgil. Maybe a small memory charm. It will all be fine."

"Obviously, I'm not welcome here. I don't see why I ought to stay."

"I just want you to act like an _adult_ , Ron," she whispered. "It's _very_ important that the press sees that we were able to get through an event without it ending in both of us storming out. The last thing I need is another nasty article about either of us. My approval rating can't handle it."

"So you just want me here for your image," he pointed out. "Is that s'posed to make me feel better, Hermione?"

"Ron, it's not that. I just—"

Ron shook his head. "I'll see you at home."

With that, he was gone.


	13. Hesitancy

The gala did not end as smoothly as Hermione had hoped that it would. She spent the rest of the evening trying to explain Ron's absence to her colleagues, including Virgil Clearwater and a number of other important members of the Ministry. Most people that attended the party did not socialize with her husband, and while it was probably for the best, she could not help but feel disappointed. Everyone had brought their significant others and he had barely managed to stay for an hour.

The night came to a close around midnight, as several of the caretakers pushed the event attendees to leave. Hermione was grateful for the chance to leave, as Joslyn and Asha Horos had been tailing her for the remainder of the evening, looking for an opportunity to press her about their rather ill-conceived agenda. Although she was pleased to escape the persistent woman and her wife, she did not look forward to speaking with Ron.

As soon as she Apparated into the house, the stench of booze made her nose pucker. She was not surprised to see Ron opening a chocolate frog, his tongue poking out of his mouth and a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky under his arm.

"Nice of you to finally come home," he muttered without looking at her. He sunk back into the sofa and tossed the wrapper onto the table, not even bothering to look at the collectible card.

"Don't start, Ron," she warned, flicking her wand angrily. The zipper of her dress flew downward. "I had to clean up your mess like always."

Ron bit off the head of the chocolate frog. "Must be tough to be the Minister for Magic, everyone always telling you how bloody wonderful you are. Please, Hermione, tell me more how bad _your_ life is."

Hermione yanked a high heel off, lividly, wobbling as she tried to balance on the other. "As if _you_ have it bad! I pay for everything. I clean up after you. I keep you fed. Honestly, Ron, I let you get away with bloody murder! What else do you _want_ from me?" She tugged the other heel off, letting it fall to the floor and onto its side.

"Well," Ron began, his eyes darkening, "you don't exactly respect me, do you?"

" _Respect_ you?" Hermione spat, pulling bobby pins out of her hair. "You're a drunk! How can you expect me to respect you?"

"That's what I'm talking about!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet. The bottle of firewhisky tumbled to the floor. "Always calling me a drunk, a slob, nagging me! Blimey, Hermione, a guy can only take so much."

Hermione stared at him, still adorned in the long, sequined dress. His face was distorted with melancholy as he held back tears and ran his long fingers through his messy grey-and-ginger locks. He had changed into just a pair of boxers and a stained white tee shirt, a testament to his class. She should have felt sympathy for the vulnerable man before her, but sadly, she only felt resentment.

"I _wish_ I were lying when I said those things," she said, darkly.

"So that's what you think of me, is it?" he asked, incredulously. "That I'm some sort of bloody oaf?"

"Well, Ron, you don't exactly give me reason to think otherwise, do you?" Hermione asked, plucking out her diamond earrings. She stormed to the bathroom to put them in her jewelry box, shouting so her husband could hear her from the living room. "You hardly leave the house, you're constantly eating junk food and drinking, your own brother doesn't even want you in the shop anymore. Even tonight, you were drooling over a woman that was trying to _blackmail_ me and you insulted one of my colleagues!" She emerged from the bathroom and stalked back into the living room. "And worst of all, Ron, you act like _I'm_ the enemy when _I_ work tirelessly to provide for you and the children."

"I wasn't drooling over her!"

"It doesn't matter even if you were," she sighed. "It's the rest of it that's the real problem, Ron. The drinking, the laziness—"

"I'm not lazy," he argued, knitting his brows together.

"I do everything, Ron!" she yelled. " _I'm_ the homemaker. _I'm_ the provider. _I_ clean, _I_ work, _I_ —"

"You aren't the only one that works, Hermione!" he barked, clenching his fists. "I work my _ass_ off for the shop and George knows it! Doesn't matter if I'm here, there, wherever—I'm doing just as much as Fred would've. And why? It's not like _you_ appreciate it."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Oh please, Ron. You _cannot_ say what you do is work. Besides, you barely make an income. You'd be living with your parents if it weren't for me."

"So I have to be rich, then? Is that it?" he snarled. "Maybe that's why you went out with Malfoy. Hoping to get one in on his fancy inheritance, were you?"

Clenching her jaw, she shook her head and plodded towards her study. What he had said was not even worth an argument, yet still, he followed her down the hallway, stamping towards her with ill intent. Before he could reach her, she opened the door and slammed it, locking it behind her.

Her chest heaved up and down as Ron pounded on the door, calling her name and demanding that she let him in. Tears running down her cheeks, she backed away from the door and sat down at her desk, her expensive dress still unzipped and riding up her thighs. The tulle bunched over the desk in a heap of black and shimmering gold, and she soon found herself staring at it, drowning out her husband's drunken rage.

"Hermione, open the door! C'mon!"

Sniffling, she hiked the skirt of her dress above her waist and shimmied out of it. Her wand fell to the floor, as she had been hiding it in a lone pocket in the front, a common design choice for formal witches' wear. With a sigh, she picked it up and set it on the desk, disregarding Ron's thunderous shouts.

"Open the damn door!"

She drew in a deep breath as she opened the old Arithmancy book, exposed to the chilly air as she sat in only her cotton underwear. She plucked the photograph of her and Draco from inside and shut her eyes, returning to a time when he had treated her coldly.

_Professor Slughorn hovered over her shoulder, concern evident in his gaze. Her face was crimson with embarrassment while she attempted to save her Ageing Potion, stirring vigorously as its color changed from murky brown to an unattractive bile yellow._

_"Pity, Miss Granger. It's looking a bit beyond saving, if I may say so," he noted with a frown._

_Hermione sighed, exasperated. She had always had a certain aptitude for her studies, but N.E.W.T. level potions stumped even the brightest witch at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Perhaps, she did not want to admit it, but it was because she was distracted. With her mind focused so strongly on her shortage of post, slipups seemed to be happening more and more often._

_As she ran her hands through her bushy hair, she heard a snicker from across the room. She shot a glare in the direction of the laughter, disgruntled by the boy's incessant snobbery. The blond wizard smirked back at her and raised his eyebrows._

_She turned her focus back to trying to fix her potion, but even her desperation could do nothing for it. Professor Slughorn had been correct when he said that it was beyond saving. Defeated, she slouched in her chair as the professor continued to make his rounds. Only when he reached Draco Malfoy did she let out a scowl._

_"Superb, Mr. Malfoy! Perfect color and consistency," he exclaimed. "The mustiness is just right, as well! Great work, great work."_

_Grumbling to herself, Hermione cleaned up the failed mixture. Professor Slughorn called class to an end and she hurried out the door as quickly as her feet would carry her, eager to avoid the humiliation of answering for her imperfect marks for the day. Unfortunately, she was not faster than the catlike reflexes of a certain Death Eater._

_"Where are we headed so hastily, Granger?" he asked, smoothly stepping in front of her._

_Irate, she narrowed her eyes and pushed past him. "Arithmancy. Shouldn't you be headed there too are you going off to sneak some Death Eaters into the school?"_

_"Snide as ever. You'd think you'd want to stay after class, considering you'll have to make that potion to pass your N.E.W.T.," he said, smugly, following her. "But maybe your Potions marks are just a bit, how did Slughorn put it,_ beyond saving? _"_

_"Stay away from me, ferret," she scoffed, quickening her pace._

_"My, my," he taunted, "you sure are a nasty little Mudblood. When you're twenty-five and still trying to pass your Potions N.E.W.T., I'll make a toast to you from my mansion."_

_She ignored him, her books held close to her chest as she rushed towards her Arithmancy course, leaving him far behind her. He kept shouting insults down the hall, his self-importance coating every acidic word._

Hermione frowned. Ignoring the men in her life had become a theme, yet there seemed to be a stark difference between her relationship with Draco Malfoy and her relationship with Ronald Weasley. While she and Draco had had tumultuous beginnings, they grew to know each other, finding new appreciation for their mutual support in a grim, postwar world. The mask that Draco wore fell, leaving her with his purest form. When they were young, he learned to mature and become a stronger, more open man, despite all of the ugliness that had surrounded him since his bleak childhood. The more she learned, the more she began to care for him.

Ron, however, had only become hollower, darker version of the awkward teenager she had once adored. As he pounded on the door, urging her to open it, she accepted the mortality of their broken marriage. Unless he understood the consequences of his actions, she would have to put an end to her years of indecision.

_With her stomach in knots, Hermione walked down the aisle. She walked alone, unlike the traditional Muggle brides that she saw on television and in magazines. Her parents could not find the time to attend, not that she would have expected them to. They had barely seen her in years, growing further and further apart as she pursued a career in the magical world._

_She had heard the term "cold feet" a number of times, and as she walked in time with the enchanted piano, she realized that she was a casualty of the stereotype. Her toes wiggled in her strappy shoes, urging her to move forward despite her hesitancy. She did not appear to be the only one that was unsure about the ceremony. Her husband-to-be was fidgeting, earning a concerned stare from his best man, Harry Potter._

_Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked up the steps to face Ron. She gave him a small, nervous smile, but as she looked at his face, she realized that he was not fidgeting because of the nerves._

_The marriage officiant rambled on, yet she hardly heard his voice. Her eyes were black, set on her drunken fiancé. Harry steadied him, locking eyes with Hermione, silently begging her not to walk away despite Ron's sickening state._

Suddenly, a loud boom interrupted her memory. She let out a small squeak as the door trembled under the heaviness of Ron's persistent hand.

"Hermione, talk to me!"

With tears streaming down her face, she placed the picture back inside the very same Arithmancy book that she had been carrying to class when Draco affronted her in the corridor. She pulled on the uncomfortable dress and tightened her fist around her wand.

"Blimey, Hermione! You can't just run off like this all the time!"

With a deep exhale, she waved her wand and the zipper shot upward. Her actions felt like those of someone else. The cogs of her brain did not click in their usual way, but it did not stop her. She idly fixed the sleeves, mildly aware of falling sequins. The gown clung to her middle, the fabric prickling her skin in protest as she made yet another questionable decision. Then, despite her inevitable regret, she closed her eyes and Apparated.

A gust of wind kissed her face and she opened her eyes to a familiar moss-colored door.


	14. Hospitality

As he beat on the white door before him, Ronald Weasley pleaded for his wife to let him inside. The married couple spent endless nights arguing, and while he knew that something between them had to change, he was not ready to stop fighting for her. No matter what sorts of insults were exchanged between them, he could not imagine his life without the witty woman that he had known for so long.

"Hermione, please!" he begged, blinking away tears. "I'm sorry, okay? Just please, _please_ let me in."

There was no answer. He could not even hear the usual shuffling of book pages.

Admittedly, Ron often wondered what his life would be like if Hermione was not constantly belittling him. To him, it had become obvious that he could not live the way that he wanted with the woman that he was married to. Alas, he was torn. He knew that they could do better if they worked harder. They simply did not understand each other.

"Merlin, Hermione! You can't just keep ignorin' me!"

Still, the door did not open.

* * *

Hermione Granger was not inside of the room that her husband was so desperately trying to enter. In fact, she was knocking on a door just the same as he was.

"Please answer, please answer, please answer," she whispered to herself, her cold breath a cloud in the crisp late autumn air.

She knocked for a third time, holding her legs close together for warmth. The sequined gown was not meant to be worn in the evening frost.

After waiting several minutes, the moss green door swung open. Draco Malfoy looked down at her, the subtle glow from the indoor candles shining on his gaunt face. Like a dark angel, he was dressed in matte onyx, a contrast to his gleaming white hair and pallid skin.

"It's late," was all that he said.

"I know," she replied, her voice small.

He stepped aside, beckoning her into his cottage. He closed the door behind her, but not before peering outside into the early morning blackness.

"What brings you here at such an hour, Granger?" he inquired, his voice laced with judgment. She had seated herself at his dining room table, and he sat across from her, his grey eyes studying her every move.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The clock struck two.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" he asked, leaning forward, his stare drilling into her. "Every time I see you, you run away, and come back, and run away, and come back again, and tonight, you show up on my doorstep when you should be at home with your husband. I'm not sure you have an explanation for this one, Granger."

Letting out a deep, crackling breath, she replied, "I don't."

"We're in our forties, not fourteen. You wouldn't just show up somewhere—unannounced, I might add—this late without _some_ kind of motive," he pressed. "What was it this time? Another argument with Weasel?"

Wringing her hands, she murmured, "Yes, I suppose that was it."

He raised an eyebrow. "As much as I enjoy your untimely visits, I'm too old for games. Tell me the real reason. Why not Potter's?"

She shook her head, more than well aware that Ginny would have liked her company during Harry's absence. "I—I honestly don't know, Draco. Something told me to come here instead, so I did."

"And what's with the get-up? As flattered as I am, it's a bit late to take me out dancing, don't you think?"

"Annual Christmas gala," she murmured, crossing her arms. "It's a Ministry thing."

He nodded as he began to paint the mental picture. "And Weasley acted an ass."

Hermione wanted to appreciate Draco's intense attention to detail, yet at that moment, she did not want to answer his many inquiries. Nevertheless, late-night visits sometimes required such questions.

"Naturally," she retorted, rolling her eyes.

Draco scrutinized her. She had not been lying when she said that she did not know why she chose to visit him. In fact, Hermione did not know what she wanted at all—not in the short-term, anyway. Her long-term goals, however, were as clear as the gloss on her lips.

"I suppose that you won't be returning to Godric's Hollow this evening," he stated. It was not a question.

Hermione chewed on her lip. "I would prefer not to."

He nodded. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

She opened her mouth to protest, but she decided against it. It would be fruitless. Narcissa Malfoy had spent years teaching proper etiquette to her darling son. Most wealthy pure-bloods endured the lessons, though very few of them practiced their manners outside of their small social circles.

"Would you like something to drink before bed?" he asked, standing and pushing in his chair. "Water? Tea? Wine?"

She shook her head and stood, ready to sleep away the difficult evening. "I've had plenty tonight. Thank you, though."

Nodding, he silently led her down the short hallway to the bedroom where he spent his nights alone. He opened the door and motioned her inside. Her jaw was agape as she took in its beauty; Draco had always had a refined sense of taste. Gothic carvings of gargoyles and serpents were etched into the black headboard and footboard, standing out against the crisp emerald sheets and the silver duvet. Intricate mahogany crown molding and wainscoting highlighted the black-and-emerald striped walls and polished hardwood floors. Framing the single, gargantuan window, there were black curtains made of silk that just almost touched the nearby dresser; it perfectly matched the bed's exquisite décor.

Hermione had stayed in expensive hotels all over the world since becoming the Minister for Magic, but never had she been in a bedroom so striking.

His tired eyes looked her up and down. "You shouldn't transfigure that. There are hangers in the closet. You'll find pajamas in the bottom drawer."

"I appreciate you letting me stay here tonight."

His sharp gaze was fixed on her shoeless feet. "I'll see you in the morning, Granger."

* * *

Chirping birds and the scent of cooking sausage awoke Hermione from her deep, cozy slumber. She yawned and stretched her arms and legs before her grogginess slightly subsided, leaving her ready for the day. Her eyes finally opened and she let out a small yelp of surprise. Briefly, she had forgotten that she was not in her own bed.

After recalling the previous night's events, she looked at herself in the mirror. Day-old makeup stained her eyes and skin while her hair darted in all directions from sleeping in expensive hairspray. The silk black pajamas hung loosely, yet comfortably, on her slim frame. She silently reminded herself to try and eat more.

Anxiously, she slowly opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. Hoping not to make a noise, she peered around doors in search of the bathroom. The first door she opened clearly belonged to a young boy, while the next was a peculiar room full of baubles and relics. A cold gust of wind rushed at her and she quickly slammed it shut. Before she could reach the third, Draco interrupted her.

"It's the last door, just before the sitting room," he noted, peering into the hallway.

Her face crimson, she nodded and dipped into the loo. A million questions ran through her curious mind as she urinated. Despite her overnight absence, she doubted that Ron even noticed that she was gone.

The dining room table was set with two ornate plates, teacups and saucers, silverware made of real silver, and a platter of sausages and toast. Hermione's stomach rumbled as she took in the unfamiliar sight of a fully prepared meal. Draco sat at one end of the table, sipping on his tea, his plate still clean and untouched.

"This looks delicious," she breathed, sitting across from him. "Did you make all this?"

"Clearly."

Noticing that he had not yet served himself, she frowned, holding back her urge to scarf down as much as she could stomach. Instead, she lifted her cup of tea to her mouth, wondering if it was improper etiquette to eat first.

With a roll of his eyes, Draco flicked his wand. Two pieces of toast and three pieces of sausage floated onto Hermione's plate, and then two more of each floated onto his. She let out a sigh of relief and cut into the breakfast meat, keen to taste its succulence.

"This is _incredible_ ," she praised, her mouth full.

He took a small bite of toast and swallowed. "There's a butcher in Knockturn Alley. He always has the best cuts."

"You still go down there?" Hermione asked, incredulously.

"You'd be surprised how many family heirlooms mysteriously end up at Borgin and Burkes," he said, matter-of-factly. "It seems that some of my parents' belongings were stolen when Voldemort and his lovely associates were staying with us."

Hermione nodded before biting into the buttered toast on her plate. Never had she been so grateful for a home-cooked meal that she did not have to prepare herself. "I do appreciate the hospitality, Draco, especially given the time last night."

"Usually, guests aren't welcome here, but I figured I didn't have much choice with you being a government official and all." He smirked. "Was the sausage to your liking or should I expect Aurors on my doorstep next?"

Laughing, Hermione deepened her voice. "I've eaten better food off of lavatory floors! Off to Azkaban with you!"

He chuckled, toast in hand. "If you were Shacklebolt, I would've believed you just then."

"He never wanted you arrested," Hermione scoffed. "You were just a teenager. Everyone knew it wasn't your fault."

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Weasley didn't seem to think so. He made many an unwelcome stop at Malfoy Manor back in his Auror days."

"Okay, everyone with _brains_ knew it wasn't your fault."

Snorting, Draco pointed out, " _You_ married him."

"A detail that I think I'd like to forget right now," Hermione admitted.

"The Minister for Magic gets Sundays off, I presume?" Draco asked before taking another sip of tea.

"Yes, of course," she replied, her mouth still full of toast. "Headquarters are closed."

"Plans for the day, then?" he inquired, stiffly, wiping his mouth with the kerchief that his silverware had once been wrapped inside.

She inhaled. "Honestly, I'm just dreading going home."

He cut into the last piece of sausage on his plate and elegantly chewed, his mouth fully closed. Hermione watched him, entranced by his table manners. He swallowed and replied, "Procrastination is a gift, Granger. If I do say so myself, I've gotten quite good at it over the years."

Smiling, she ate the final bite of sausage on her plate. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

Ron had not slept. Instead, violet half-rings surrounded the underside of his eyes as he opened a new bottle of firewhisky. At half past three, he came to the conclusion that Hermione would not open the door and he decided to wait for her.

As late morning approached, he found his eyes fixated on the hallway, wondering when she would finally come out. Both the restroom and bedroom doors were open and the rooms were empty, so she had not slipped by him. Convinced that she would never sleep in the study, he decided that it was time to knock again. He stumbled down the hallway and banged on the door, drunk and fatigued.

"Hermione!"

She did not respond. He pressed his ear to the door, his mouth curling into a frown. When he heard nothing, he began to worry.

"Hermione, c'mon now! It's been _hours_."

Never unlocking locked doors was an unspoken rule in their house. His wife had always valued her privacy, especially since she had become the Minister for Magic and oftentimes needed to focus. While Ron tended to break most rules, it was the one line that he by no means dared to cross.

"Hermione, I'm goin' to unlock the door if you don't answer me!" he warned. "I know you hate that so just c'mon out, yeah?"

He waited a moment, giving her time to come to the door. When she didn't, he raised his wand and recited a spell he had never cast in his own home.

" _Alohomora_."

The lock clicked and he swung open the door, only to choke on what he saw. The study was barren, the only trace of his wife an Arithmancy book on her desk.

Mortified, he ran to the furthest end of the hallway to the stairs. He had not been on the second floor since summer, so his legs ached and he wheezed as he climbed them, but still, he rasped his wife's name.

"Hermione?" he shouted down the empty upstairs corridor. "Hermione!"

Only his own voice echoed back at him. He peeked in both of the children's rooms, the library, and even the upstairs bathroom. When he could not find her, tears welled in his weary eyes. His beloved wife had disappeared without as much as a word.


	15. Memory

Hermione Granger did not know what to expect. After a platonic breakfast prepared by her former flame, she was pulling on a pair of his black trousers and a white button-up shirt. Hermione assumed he only owned the Muggle clothing to avoid his neighbors' attention. She rolled up the pant-legs and quietly walked out of his bedroom, wondering where he planned to take her.

"Here," Draco greeted her, holding out a pair of black wizard's shoes. "They're self-sizing."

Hermione accepted the shoes and dropped them onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud. As soon as her feet were inside, they tightened snugly around her wiggling toes. The fit was superb. In fact, it was even more superb than any of the custom pumps that were made for her for Ministry events. "These must've cost a _fortune_."

Draco smirked. "I'm not sure your definition of a fortune is the same as mine, Granger."

She rolled her eyes and nudged him. "Where are we going, anyway?"

He summoned a jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "It isn't too far."

Questioningly, Hermione pushed her arms through the sleeves. They were far too long for her short arms, but she quite liked the comfort of its mannish size. Without a word, Draco beckoned her and she slowly padded down the hallway. He tailed her to the front door and wrapped his hand around the knob, a knowing smirk on his face. Her heart pounded in her chest as he opened the door and she stepped onto his front porch.

He closed the door behind them and cast a quick locking charm. The door clicked. Then, the familiar blond wizard put his wand into his jacket pocket and turned towards her. "Shall we?"

As she followed him, she kept her hands in the pockets of the long, masculine jacket, still unsure where they were going. There was a small distance between the two of them, just enough so they would not brush arms. Still, Hermione found herself looking up at him every few moments. He carried himself confidently and quickly, just like he always had. She briefly thought of Ron and attempted to bury her attraction to the man beside her.

"How far is it?" Hermione asked, concerned about the number of houses that they had passed. "Somebody is going to see us."

"Nearly there, Granger. Just past the trees."

Anxiously, she followed him, her eyes darting back and forth between the number of small cottages full of Muggles, witches, and wizards. It was a dreary day, so they were the only people outside, but they certainly were not the only people in the sleepy village. Hermione noticed an elderly woman closing her drapes as soon as she saw the two of them, undoubtedly fearful of the man in black.

She let out a sigh of relief as the road hugged the tall conifers and the small homes disappeared. Draco led her off the cobblestone road onto a narrow deer trail. A black squirrel rushed across their path as the trees swallowed them and welcomed them to their own private reality.

They followed the deer trail for a short time, chattering birds and chipmunks guiding them along the way. Then, just beyond the petite forest of evergreens, they came upon a small lake, complete with quacking ducks and full bulrushes. Suddenly, Hermione's heart was pounding again. The last time that she had been to a lake with Draco, they had spent the night together in an entirely different way.

* * *

Ginny Potter was weary after another long, sleepless night. The family owl, Della, had taken to squawking uncontrollably whenever Harry was gone in the evenings. Unfortunately, he had to work several overnight shifts on Brother Isle, leaving her worn-out and dysfunctional. There was no sleeping during the bird's bloodcurdling tantrums. The ginger woman had never been happier to have her husband home than she was that tired morning.

After spending the morning cleaning Della's feathers off of the bedroom dresser, she finally found some time to drink a cup of tea. She despairingly sipped from the teacup, the dark circles under her eyes a tribute to her restlessness. Harry sat across from her, silverware clunking against the plate as he cut into an enormous Belgian waffle.

"I'm never going to finish this damn article," she muttered. "I'm absolutely _exhausted_."

"Can't believe she's still doing that," Harry replied, his mouth full. He drizzled more strawberry syrup over the waffle. "Shame she's such a handful. I've only ever had good luck with snowy owls."

"I almost cursed her last night," Ginny grumbled. "Levy is going to _kill_ me if I don't finish this player profile by Monday."

He put an encouraging hand on hers. "You'll get it, dear. Take a nap. You can work on it when you wake up."

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "How's the waffle?"

"Delicious, thanks," he replied, stabbing another piece with his fork. "You know, Brother Isle was really quite lovely. I wouldn't mind going back sometime, just you and me."

"I'm glad it was a good time." She pressed her palms hard against her temples.

"Did you know Muggles believe it's uninhabited?" Harry continued. "Rosie and Paul have put together some rather special protection charms there by the inn to make the Muggles think the island is half the size that it really is. Still quite small, though. Perfect place to get away from the hustle and bustle."

"That sounds lovely." Ginny smiled. "I could really use a quiet holi—"

Suddenly, she was interrupted by a hard knock and yelling. After exchanging confused glances with Harry, she stood and made her way to the front door. With her hand on her wand, she cracked it open.

"Ginny!" a drunken Ron shouted, his hair a rat's nest. He looked more drained than she did. "Gin, is Hermione here?"

Ginny frowned, opening the door wider. "No, why?"

"Gin, she's gone," he breathed, pushing his way inside. "Ginny, you've got to help me. You, Harry—one of you has to know where she is."

"I'm afraid I don't," Ginny said, slowly, shutting the door. "Are you sure she didn't just head out somewhere early?"

Ron shook his head. "No, I didn't sleep. She was all dressed up and went into her study and when I went to check on her she wasn't there."

Harry joined them in the foyer, a bit of strawberry syrup on his upper lip. "What's going on, Ron? I heard shouting."

"Hermione's gone," Ron summarized. "We had a fight and she's gone."

"I'm sure she isn't _gone_ ," Harry rebutted. "Did she take her things?"

"No," Ron muttered.

"It's Hermione. She probably just got mad and went to stay with a friend or something."

Ron shook his head. "She would've come _here_."

"Ron, why don't you sit down?" Ginny rationalized, lightly tugging on his arm. She led him through the mudroom and down the hallway to the dining room. "What were you fighting about?"

He frowned, sitting down at the table. Ginny and Harry sat down as well, waiting for his explanation. Instead, he choked on his words.

"It might help us figure out where she is," Ginny insisted. "Just tell us."

"Well, I guess I said something at her Ministry gala that made some old guy mad," he muttered. "And I might've been drinkin' with a girl that was trying to blackmail her."

"Gee, I wonder why she was mad," Harry quipped. "Women really are a mystery."

Ron glared at him. "Yeah, well, I've told her I hate the bloody things but she keeps takin' me. I get nervous and get drunk and I act an ass. She should know better."

"I really hope that's not what you plan on leading with once she comes back," Ginny chimed. "She'll pack her things faster than you can say 'Quidditch'."

"Where d'you reckon she'd go?" Ron asked, wringing his hands. "If she's not here?"

Harry shrugged. "She could be a lot of places, mate. I think you need to go home and get some sleep. She'll show once she's blown off some steam."

"You might want to cut back on the drinking too," Ginny added.

Ron glared at her. "Yeah, my wife left me and I'm _not_ gonna have a drink. Right."

"I'm _serious_ , Ron," Ginny nagged. "Go home and sleep. I'm sure she'll be there when you wake up and everything will be fine."

He shook his head. "I dunno, Gin. I hope you're right."

* * *

Hermione was speechless. The scene before her was completely new, but curiously familiar. She was mildly aware of Draco, who had not closed the distance between them, yet somehow seemed closer to her.

As the breeze blew through her unkempt hair, she fixed her eyes on the lake and murmured, "Why did you bring me here?"

"I thought a walk might get your mind off things," he replied, innocently. "It is quite like the Great Lake, though, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded, slowly. "Quite."

The last time that she had been to the lake on the grounds of Hogwarts, she and Draco had been far more than friendly.

_The typical grey sky of the Scottish Highlands loomed above Hermione as she stormed away from the castle, clutching firmly onto the newspaper that had made her so angry. A picture of Draco Malfoy and her graced the cover._

_A fourth-year named Annabel Pack glared at her as she passed her by. Unfortunately, it was the same look that she had been receiving all day. Even after all the years of proof that the_ Daily Prophet _published nothing but lies, people still believed whatever it said._

_Desperate to be alone, she found a secluded spot beside the Great Lake. She plopped onto the ground beside a thicket of conifer trees, hiding from her schoolmates amongst the brush. The thick, musky scent of pine was the relaxant that she needed._

_It felt like hours, but it had only been moments, when Draco sat down beside her, breathily. She had not looked over at him. Instead, she stared at the blackness of the lake, the newspaper still in her dangerous grasp._

_The two of them sat in silence for a short while, the cool air nipping at their ears and the musty smell of the lake on their noses._

_"You saw the headline," she muttered. "Everyone thinks I'm some kind of traitor."_

_"I didn't read it," Draco replied, airily. "I don't need to hear some moron's narrative of my life."_

_Hermione glared at him and tossed the newspaper onto the ground in front of them. It unfurled, still warped from her wrathful grip. Draco's eyes brushed over the headline. It read, "HOGWARTS HERO TO TOTAL ZERO: THE TROUBLING STORY OF HERMIONE GRANGER"._

_"It's disturbing, really," Hermione pontificated. "How did he even_ get _those pictures?"_

_"Same way they always do," Draco growled, plucking needles of grass from the soft ground. "Following us around like the filthy rats that they are."_

_"And he didn't even give us a chance to explain!" she fumed. "We were just grabbing drinks—no different than everyone else on a Hogsmeade weekend."_

_Draco chuckled. "Don't discredit him more than he deserves. We're hardly the same as everyone else."_

_"Sure, but what right does he have to question who we choose to drink with? We have good reason to drink and everyone knows it," she sneered. "He's foul. I'd hex him if I could."_

_"Granger hexing someone for making her mad. That's new," Draco mused._

_Hermione rolled her eyes and rubbed her hands together. "It's freezing out here."_

_The snowmelt had left the ground cold and wet, dampening their plainclothes. Yet, she did not mind. The frigid air and her damp bottom were more refreshing than the disapproving whispers lining the castle walls._

_Draco wrapped an arm around her and murmured a quick warming charm. She let out a sigh of relief and lay her head on his shoulder, grateful for his thoughtfulness. After all the time that they had spent together, it was not unusual for the two of them to be found around the grounds, cozier with one another than anyone ever expected them to be. It had become quite natural for the two of them, yet something about that moment was different. As Draco pulled her closer, butterflies fluttered in her gut and she suddenly felt dizzier than usual. It was a new feeling—not even one that she had experienced with Ron or Viktor Krum._

_"Better?" he asked, raising a pale eyebrow._

_"Much." Hermione noted, picking her head up to press her lips to his cheek. Yet, before she could tear herself away, Draco turned his head, his lips brushing against hers. As though it had become second nature, she returned the favor, tenderly moving her mouth against his as she felt his hands move into her thick, bushy hair._

_Suddenly his hands were moving under her shirt and the kiss had grown into a beast all its own. His rough hands explored the softness of her skin—her back, her stomach, her hips. She found herself reciprocating his every motion, his skin warm and firm against her feminine fingertips. Breathlessly, he took off his jacket and lay it on the soggy ground before gracefully lifting her on top of it._

_"Is this wrong?" Hermione gasped as his lips caressed her neck._

_He pulled away for a moment and smirked. "When have I ever cared about right or wrong, Granger?"_

_Then, in the next few moments, the loneliness of the grey sky and somber, icy lake was deafened. As Draco's flesh embraced hers, Hermione had ceased to think. All of her sadness and fear had dissipated._

Blushing at the memory, Hermione tilted her head. "Draco, why did you _really_ bring me here?"

He gave her a knowing glance. "You know, Granger, if you have to ask, you're less clever than everyone seems to think."


	16. Reality

Tranquility was not a word to describe the Minister for Magic's daily life. Between her alcoholic husband, her demanding career, her children, and her constant worrying, she simply did not have time to slow down and breathe. Yet, in that moment, with Draco Malfoy, there was no better word. Tranquility: foreign, a mere childhood memory, but with the right person in the right place, perfectly obtainable.

The crisp, lake air cleared her clouded mind. Harmony felt unnatural. In fact, it felt so unnatural that she knew it had to be wrong. She opened her mouth to tell Draco that it was inappropriate and that she ought to be getting home. Alas, the words would not come out. While she tried to convince herself that she did not want to be there with him, her spirit fought for what it needed. Tranquility: a potion for the soul.

The unspoken solitude that had fallen between the two of them was muted bliss. Her usually restless life had come to a sudden pause, and with Ron and work settling deep into her subconscious, she felt relief. Her world was chaos, but with Draco, everything made sense.

"Do you spend a lot of time here?" She pulled at the bark of the alder stump that she was perched upon.

He looked up at her from his spot on the hard ground, his hands splayed against the terrain as he leaned back on them. "I suppose so. It's a good place to get some fresh air."

She nodded, but she did not have much else to say. When she was young, she could not have pictured Draco Malfoy enjoying the great outdoors, but the man she saw before her was not the sarcastic little boy that tortured her throughout their childhood. He was caring, refined, and intelligent.

Two floating ducks prattled in their bird language, circling one another on the lake. Hermione watched them as they jubilantly quacked beneath the towering jack pines, observably speaking of things that only ducks would care about. To her surprise, she could relate to them. In that moment, she was just as carefree as they were.

"This is nice," she confessed. "You're quite lucky to have such a place so close by. I wish I could come here all the time."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not stopping you."

Hermione's face flushed. "I meant I just don't have the time to go outside and just enjoy it. Too busy with work and when the kids are home and—well, you know."

He nodded. "Chasing a drunken child around would take up your precious time, I imagine."

She couldn't repress a snort. "Well, yes. It does. But I suppose that's what I agreed to." Her eyes were drawn to the ring on her finger. It was gold, thick with patina and handsome character.

Draco bit his tongue. The peace between them was soothing, and he did not want his attitude to drive her away. Even if she could not yet admit it to herself, he knew what she wanted. It would take time, but he was willing to wait. He had already waited for over twenty years.

Melancholy silence surrounded them as they recounted their adolescent history. The memories were cheerful ones, but the memories also led to turmoil. Draco had married a woman with a blood curse, only to watch his son grieve her death. Hermione had married her schoolyard crush, but their partnership was composed of arguments, heavy drinking, and mutual disapproval. Draco and Hermione had thought they were making mistakes when they were young, yet it seemed that their most fatal mistake happened when they chose to part ways.

"Draco," Hermione started, slowly, unsure how to approach the subject, "was it my fault?"

He narrowed his eyes, not entirely sure what she was asking. "Was _what_ your fault?"

She groaned. "How things happened. Was it my fault that we decided to—well, you know—go our separate ways?"

He was taken aback by her question. He was not convinced she was fully ready to discuss it yet. Plus, the duo's separation was a mutual decision. The political climate simply would not allow them to continue their relationship—not back then, at least. They were in opposite spotlights, hers a spotlight for war heroes and his a spotlight for Death Eaters.

"It was nobody's fault. It never would have worked with the world being the way that it was. You know that."

With a nod, she decided not to ask him anything else. The wind between the trees made the pine needles shiver, scaring off small, chipper birds and bickering squirrels. She was thankful for the stunning scene before her, because it gave her every excuse not to look Draco in his steely, grey eyes.

Storm clouds rolled above their heads, warning them that rain was quickly approaching. As the first bit of thunder roared, Hermione turned to Draco, wondering if they needed to start walking back to his home. However, his gaze was fixed on the ducks as they wiggled their tail feathers and found shelter under a bundle of cattails.

A light drizzle began and Draco was still wringing his hands, staring at the wildlife surrounding the lake. Hermione wondered what he was thinking.

"Should we be getting back?" she finally asked.

"If you'd like," he replied, stiffly, getting to his feet. He held his hand out to help her up, which she accepted. "I can make lunch if you're hungry."

She shook her head. "Still quite full from breakfast, honestly. I'll probably change and go back home. Ron probably has a search party looking for me by now."

Draco nodded, but said nothing.

They walked back to his cottage, quietly. By the time they exited the forest, the rain was pouring heavily, running down their faces. The long pant-legs had unfurled and were collecting mud from the street as Hermione followed her blond host. He stopped for her as he realized that she was trailing behind.

"Would you rather Apparate back?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine." She rather enjoyed the time she spent with him, and even if it was ten minutes in the rain, it was another ten minutes that they would be together. She knew that she needed to get home, but she was not excited to argue with her husband. Walking with Draco was a much better use of her time.

The cold rain drenched her hair and ran down her back. As her teeth began to chatter, she found herself stepping closer to Draco. He studied her, curiously. Her intentions were not yet clear to him, but he had a suspicion that she knew exactly what she wanted. The only obstacle was her own fear.

They walked dangerously close to one another until they were only a few minutes away from his home. Then, she seized his wrist and tugged it towards her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She had spent several minutes convincing herself that it would be purely platonic. He gave her a judgmental stare, but steadied his arm there, nonetheless.

"People can see us, you know," he pointed out. "The neighbors, they're old. Busybodies, even. They'll think—"

She ignored him. "It's cold. That's all."

He nodded, disbelievingly. They did not say another word until they reached his porch and he awkwardly removed his arm from her narrow shoulders. She shivered as his body heat disappeared. He murmured an unlocking charm and they stepped inside.

"I suppose I'll be changing clothes and going, then," Hermione stated, taking off the self-sizing shoes. They returned to their previous size. "Is there anywhere you'd like me to leave everything?"

"Just leave it on the dresser. I'll get it sorted."

Hermione nodded and retreated to his bedroom, her heart thumping in her chest. As she peeled off the wet shirt and soaking trousers, she recalled how it felt to have his arm around her. For the first time since she was a teenager, she had felt safe.

_"Scourgify!"_

The mud lifted from the fabric and she bit her lip. With a small smile, she brushed her fingers across the place where his hand had been. She let them linger there for a moment, wishing that she could rewind her life, even if only a few minutes. She would do anything just to feel his hand there again.

Then, as reality struck, she folded the clothes and placed them atop the dresser like he had asked. Her ball gown was hanging perfectly in the closet, ready for her to slide into, but she could not bring herself to open the closet door. As soon as she did, she would have no more excuses. It would be back to the usual, painful routine.

Inhaling deeply, she slowly opened the closet door. She stared at the dress for a long while before finally taking it off of its hanger and pulling it on. With a wave of her wand, it was zipped in the back. No matter how much she didn't want to, it was time for her to go home to her husband.

With a somber expression on her face, she opened the bedroom door and trudged down the hallway, the large dress making her steps unorthodox as she tried to avoid the beautiful paintings lining the walls. In the living area, she found Draco staring at the fireplace, a goblet in hand.

"Well, I suppose I ought to be going," she murmured. "Thanks for letting me stay here, Draco. It's truly appreciated."

He turned on his heel and nodded, his grey eyes measuring every inch of her trepidation. "You're welcome to stay longer, if you like."

She sighed and shook her head. "Like I said, Ron probably is worried."

"Sure, of course."

Hermione chewed on her lip for a moment. She had been thinking about the question since breakfast, but until she felt his touch, she wasn't sure if it was worth asking. "Do you think I could come back sometime this week? Tuesday maybe?"

His lips curled into his signature smirk. "Tuesday would be lovely."

She nodded, "Tuesday it is, then."

* * *

Hermione Apparated just outside of 16 Gryffindor Drive. In an effort not to alarm Ron, she knocked on the door. It felt strange to knock on the door of the house that she had paid for, but after her evening with Draco, everything felt strange.

She heard breaking glass and a slew of curse words as her husband stomped towards the door. After a few moments, it opened and his tired eyes grew wide.

"Hermione?" he asked, somehow sounding both angry and relieved. "Where've you been?"

She brushed past him to enter the house, as he was partially blocking the door. Her eyes were drawn to the mess that he had created during her short absence. Glass was shattered on the beige kitchen tile, bottles of beer and firewhisky were strewn around the house, and what appeared to be vomit was all over the sofa. She predicted the scene before leaving Willow Ale Court. Her husband never acted rationally, and in such a situation, she could only expect him to act more irrationally than usual.

"I stayed at a motel for the evening," she lied, pulling out her wand. After blasting away the vomit, she sat down on the sofa and flexed her aching feet. Despite a perfect fit, she had gone without socks and that was never a good idea.

"Where?"

"Erm...Liverpool." It was the first place that came to mind.

" _Liverpool?_ What the bloody hell did you need to go to _Liverpool_ for?"

"I was craving some scouse," Hermione fibbed again, tightening up her story. "It's comforting, and great drunk food. Considering I was drunk and needed some comforting, it seemed worth the trip."

"So you Apparated to _Liverpool?_ " he asked, disbelief in his tone.

"Yes, I Apparated to Liverpool," she doubled down, hoping that he would stop making her repeat herself.

He sat down beside her, his eyes wide and pleading. "Hermione, I was worried bloody _sick_."

"Well, Ron, I wasn't exactly in a talking mood," she snapped, flicking her wand. The zipper of her dress came down and she let out a deep breath. At last, she could breathe. "If you don't remember, we weren't exactly getting along last night."

"Yeah, I remember," he spat, "but that doesn't mean you get to run off like that. Bloody hell, Hermione, I thought you'd left me."

Her back stiffened. "Well, I'm here now."

Ron frowned. "That's s'posed to make me feel better, is it? I was up all night, worryin'. Then I find out you stayed at some bloody motel? We don't even sleep in the same bed! Why would you need to stay in a nasty, roach-infested Muggle mo—"

"I just did, okay?" Hermione snarled, getting to her feet. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to change and take a shower."

Before he could protest, she was halfway down the hallway. She locked herself into the bathroom and let the shower run as she hurriedly wrestled her way out of the expensive dress. The skirt snagged on the countertop and a slew of sequins rained into the toilet in glimmering defeat. Groaning, she tossed the dress in a heap in the corner and slunk into the warmth of the shower.

As the water cascaded down onto her body, her thoughts were clouded by the crippling guilt that she felt. She had been lying to Ron more than she had ever lied to anyone, and as he pounded on the door, calling her name, she knew that it was coming to an end. There was no spark. There was no faith. There was only the empty shell of meaningless vows.

She would have to face him as soon as she climbed out of the shower. They would argue, likely for hours, and then he would drink and she would cry. It was a ceaseless pattern that she knew she had to stop. It was just a matter of when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give my Fanfiction Club Discord a join. Every month, we do discussions on up to 11 fanfics chosen by you. We also offer house points, general banter, help for writers, betas, weekly trivia, and good friends. :) It's Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Appreciation Fest, so Gryffs and Huffles get 10 house points for joining and getting sorted. https://discord.gg/JnY7RGN


	17. Incumbency

Madelyn MacBain scanned the day's itinerary for the fifth time. The Minister for Magic was going to be extraordinarily busy, which meant that she would also be extraordinarily busy. Assuring that Hermione Granger followed her schedule was more than a full-time job. On some days, it was a near-impossible feat.

She pulled her glossy red hair into a tight bun and stood up from the oak desk in her small, windowless office. Her heels clacked down the hallway, echoing loudly against the black floor tiles as she made her way to see the Minister. She earned several nods of approval as she passed by other Ministry workers; they were mostly assistants like herself. To them, she was a role model. Working for the Minister for Magic was meant to be an honor, but deep down, Madelyn found it to be more stressful than anything. The woman she once looked up to had been making more mistakes than she could count, and covering for her was becoming increasingly difficult. She hardly ate, she hardly slept, and every time that someone had something bad to say about Hermione Granger, she snapped at them.

Fortunately, expensive concealer and pale foundation covered the deep bags under eyes, so when she waltzed into the Minister for Magic's office, she looked just as professional as she did on her first day. Overwhelmed by nerves, she simply placed the itinerary on the large, bejeweled desk and held her hands behind her back, waiting for a reaction.

"Busy today, are we?" the Minister for Magic pointed out, looking over the schedule. She stretched and the sound of her cracking spine filled the cold, empty air. "Hearing, hearing, meeting, hearing, meeting, lunch meeting, hearing, meeting—Merlin's beard! I suppose I shouldn't have worn these shoes today."

Madelyn gulped. "I c-can arrange a-another pair for you, if y-you'd like."

Hermione shook her head and waved off the notion. "It's all the same. I just hope things slow down after this since I'll have the kids back home soon." She stretched again. "Am I reading this one right? Drunk potion-making?"

Madelyn nodded. "He was trying to make a Beautification Potion, but started a fire instead. Aurors claim that the kitchen table was absolutely destroyed."

Pursing her lips, Hermione set the itinerary back onto her desk. She laced her hands together. "So a man sets fire to his own kitchen table and our Aurors decided _that_ was worthy of their resources? Somehow, I can't imagine the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would have signed off on an arrest like that."

"I don't know, M-Minister. Those were a-all the notes that I was given."

Hermione nodded. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't be late. What's the first one again?" She peeked at the itinerary and cracked her neck. "Oh, of course! A fourteen-year-old girl cast _'aguamenti'_ because she got thirsty at a Vicious Ventus concert. No Muggles, even! Surely a magnificent use of my time."

"Minister, a-are you o-okay?" Madelyn asked, her voice small. She had noticed that the Minister had been particularly tense, but never had she seen her as irate as she was in that exact moment. "You just seem upset."

"Upset?" Hermione scoffed. "Annoyed is a better word for it—annoyed that the rest of the Ministry holds hearings for these absolutely _ridiculous_ 'crimes'." She made air quotes. "I ought to be going. It's a bit of a walk to the lift and down to Courtroom Six."

With that, she stood and briskly walked out of her office.

* * *

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been staying active. Phoebe Humphries had taken it upon herself to distance the department from the Minister for Magic, because in her opinion, they were one tax cut away from having to perform a mass layoff. Unfortunately for her, Harry Potter had been getting in the way.

"It's a waste of time, Phoebe," he insisted, following her down the dimly lit hallway. "You can't keep going on these missions without me and then forcing the paperwork on me later. It makes us look unprofessional!"

Her sharp blue eyes bore into him as she stopped in front of the lift. "I'm second-in-command for a reason, Potter. If you don't trust me, fire me." With that, she stepped onto the lift and held it open. "Coming?"

He clenched his jaw and joined her. As the lift jolted to life, he hissed, "I trust you, Phoebe. And I get why you're doing it, but I promise you, it isn't solving anything. We can't keep bringing in people for harmless misdemeanors. It goes against all of my principles— _and_ the Minister's!"

"Ah yes, your best friend, the Minister," Phoebe snarled, crossing her arms. "She would know best, wouldn't she?"

"Drop the sarcasm," he growled. "I'm serious, Humphries. No more senseless arrests. I can guarantee if she has to spend one more day overseeing these pointless hearings, she _will_ be laying off Aurors."

"Is that a threat?" Phoebe looked him up and down.

He shook his head. "I know Hermione Granger better than anyone. If she sees injustice, she'll put an end to it—especially if that injustice robs her of her precious time. She already has enough on her plate."

The lift jerked to a halt on the fourth floor. Two witches shuffled onboard and exchanged glances, mildly aware that they had interrupted an argument.

* * *

After a long morning of aimless meetings and trials, Hermione Granger was wildly incensed. The Ministry determined it was inappropriate to press charges against a fourteen-year-old girl for being dehydrated, and like the other cases that followed, the defendant walked free. Hermione found herself glaring at Phoebe Humphries and her brother-in-law a number of times, wondering what the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was thinking when they made such pitiful arrests.

The evening before, her husband had taken the bed before she had stepped out of the shower, leaving her to curl up on their uncomfortable couch. He spent an absurd amount of time on the sofa, which led to the development of a number of dips and crannies. One would never notice them until they decided to lay down on it. By the time that Hermione woke up, her neck and spine were so stiff that her usual spells proved to be futile.

"Another one," she grumbled, thumbing through the paperwork. "Mr. Huckabee—"

"Y-yes, Minister!" The middle-aged defendant was as anxious as he was ardent to answer her. He had a large gap between his buckteeth and though he had tried, there was no way to hide his massive ears under his sandy blond hair. The awkward man did not belong in a courtroom.

"Mr. Huckabee," Hermione repeated, lacing her hands together, "from what I've read, you were trying to brew a Beautification Potion and it did not go as planned. Is that right?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Well, M-Minister, yes. Th-that's right."

Hermione pursed her lips. "You apparently had a few drinks before doing this. Were you aware that it is _technically_ against the law to brew potions while drunk?" She shot a meaningful glare in Phoebe Humphries's direction.

Jedidiah Huckabee frowned. "I d-didn't, ma'am. N-not until M-Ms. Humphries informed m-me."

"I figured as much," Hermione mumbled. "And Ms. Humphries, as it was you that demanded Mr. Huckabee's arrest, may I ask how you knew of the illegal activity? Considering that he was alone at the time of the incident, you must have heard about it at a later time?"

Phoebe's face flushed. "Well, he was talking about it quite openly."

"Where?" Hermione demanded, hurriedly flipping through the parchments in front of her. "I see nothing in the paperwork about the location of the confession."

"At the Leaky bloody Cauldron," Phoebe spat, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Look, Minister, I'm here to do my job and my job is to report crime. He committed a crime and he confessed in front of a room full of witnesses. The arrest was warranted."

A warning was in Hermione's gaze. "Ms. Humphries, as I've told you and Mr. Potter before, I am of the opinion that these kinds of arrests are a waste of the Ministry's time, as well as the defendants' time. How many of these cases have to be thrown out before you stop filling out the paperwork? Do you feel good about robbing Mr. Huckabee of his time? Does it make you feel important?"

The Wizengamot stared at her, awestruck by the Minister's lack of professionalism. Everybody knew that she hated pointless trials, but never had she so openly expressed it during one.

Phoebe ran her tongue over her teeth, her fury emanating off of her. "Minister, I believe it's up to the Wizengamot to determine if we're wasting anyone's time. Can we get to the facts?"

"Alright, then, Ms. Humphries. Let's get to the _facts_ ," Hermione retorted, loudly straightening the parchments in front of her. "First fact: Mr. Huckabee had four bottles of Nickermann's Dragon Ale. Second fact: he was home alone. Third fact: he brewed a potion—a Beautification Potion, to be more precise. Fourth fact: the potion went awry, just as it could have done if he were _not_ under the influence of alcohol. Fifth fact: Mr. Huckabee incinerated his own kitchen table. Sixth fact: his confession took place in the Leaky Cauldron in front of a number of witnesses, including Ms. Humphries. Seventh fact: Ms. Humphries ordered Nelson Melman to arrest Mr. Huckabee in his home. Eighth fact: Nelson Melman himself refused to be here as it was not an adequate use of his time. Now, did I miss anything, Ms. Humphries, or was my summary to your liking?"

Phoebe coughed. "No, you didn't miss anything."

"Wonderful. Does anyone here have anything to add before we put this to a vote?" Hermione asked, her hand on her gavel as she looked around the courtroom.

Phoebe put her hand in the air. "Yes, Minister. I think we ought to be asking _why_ he was brewing a Beautification Potion."

"I don't see why it's a necessary detail."

"Well, _I_ would like to know," Phoebe argued. "Mr. Huckabee, how do we know you didn't have negative intentions with that potion?"

Hermione scoffed, but Phoebe had the right to ask. She had, after all, ordered the arrest.

Mr. Huckabee shifted in his seat as the panel of Ministry members stared down at him, awaiting his answer. He was a simple man, spending most of his time tending to his beloved Snargaluff plants. Never did he think he would be on trial before the Minister for Magic.

"Mr. Huckabee, if you would please answer the question so we can be done with this _frivolous_ hearing," Hermione asserted, shooting a dark look in Phoebe's direction.

He cleared his throat. "I-it was for me."

"Excuse me?" Phoebe asked, leaning forward in her seat. "We are expected to believe that you were brewing a women's potion for yourself?"

His face flushed. "Well, you may not have noticed, Ms. Humphries, but I'm not the most attractive man. I-I asked a f-friend out and it didn't go so well. I suppose I had a few too many drinks and got thinking it must've been because of, well, my f-face, ma'am. I remembered making the potion in school a-and thought I could r-remember it but I must've missed an ingredient or added one too many."

Hermione clenched her jaw. "Are you happy with that answer, Ms. Humphries? Now that you've humiliated the defendant, can we finally get to the vote?"

"I suppose so," Phoebe drawled.

It surprised nobody when the Wizengamot determined it was best to drop all of the charges against the Snargaluff farmer. Most hearings ended that way as magical crime was at an all-time low and reported crimes were mere misdemeanors. Hermione was tired of her time being wasted in courtrooms.

As the Wizengamot left the room and Jedidiah Huckabee was freed, Hermione pulled her childhood friend aside. "Harry, we need to talk."

"I know," he grumbled. "Hermione, I know you're upset but you need to stay calm in the courts. Everything will be fine, okay? Ron will get over it—"

She furrowed her brow. "Ron? I was talking about Humphries. These arrests she's ordering—well, let's arrange a meeting." Her eyes followed the last members of the Wizengamot as they filed out of the large, bronze door of Courtroom Two.

"I already talked to her," Harry said. "I'll chat with her again."

"I just don't know how this is slipping through the cracks, Harry," she murmured, crossing her arms. " _You're_ the Head of the Department. Not her."

He gritted his teeth. "So I've told her."

Rubbing her temples, Hermione apologized. "Look, Harry, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to pry, I just can't have anyone thinking that we're tyrants here. There's enough of that in the Muggle world. I've worked hard to flush the corruption out of this place and I'd like to keep it that way."

"I'll take care of it, alright? I promise." He lightly touched her upper arm. "Hermione, are you okay? Ron said you ran off and now you seem so stressed all of a sudden. Then there was the dinner fiasco and all the articles." He took a deep breath. "I just worry."

"It's nothing, really. Ron and I just need to figure some things out."

"Ginny and I have plenty of space if you need somewhere for the kids to go while you two get it sorted," he offered. "It has to be a lot what with his drinking and—"

"I've got it," Hermione cut him off. "Honestly, Harry. We'll be fine."

He nodded, though he did not believe her. "Well, I'll worry about Humphries. Just take care of yourself. I'm here if you decide you want to talk, okay?" With one final pat to her shoulder, he pushed open the bronze door and padded down the long corridor.

Hermione exhaled. There was no lying to Harry.

* * *

Ron Weasley had decided to take a bit of a break from working on his precious dung bomb. The deep depression of a failing marriage was taking its toll on his psyche and after failing at the marketing task that George had given him, he could not fathom another disappointment. Instead of working, he lay on the sofa, chugging firewhisky and enchanting Hugo's toys to fight one another.

His stomach growled and he let out an annoyed sigh. He had finished the last of the prepackaged Cauldron Cakes and in order to buy more, he would have to go to Diagon Alley. He dropped his wand and swung his feet over the edge of the sofa. Drunkenly, he staggered towards the ice box and opened it, unsure what was inside. When he saw that there was virtually nothing, he groaned.

He plodded back to the living room and retrieved his wand from the floor. As his stomach growled again, he Apparated to the men's restroom of the Leaky Cauldron.

Disoriented both from Apparating and his drunkenness, Ron stumbled out of the men's bathroom and looked around the pub. It was a rather familiar sight. A messy-headed woman was behind the bar, scrubbing pint glasses with a dirty rag. Several regulars that could be wizards or could be squibs were sitting alone at their respective tables, eating the same meals that they ordered every day. It was the type of place that Ron pictured himself in when he was older, drinking and eating as much as he desired.

He sat down at a table in the corner and watched the waitress drop the rag and the glass that she had been cleaning. With a roll of her eyes, she trudged towards him.

"What can I get ya?"

"One of them roast beef sandwiches," he replied, not even looking at the menu on the table. "Extra mustard."

She furrowed her brow. "Did you not see the menu, sir? We don't _serve_ sandwiches."

"Since when?"

"Not since I've been workin' here."

He nodded, remembering that he once yelled at Hermione for not bringing him a sandwich when she visited the inn. Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt. He was certain that they served them.

"I guess I'll need to be lookin' then," he muttered. "Can I have a few minutes?"

She rolled her eyes again and went back to the bar. He felt her eyes on him as he looked over the menu, trying to determine what he wanted to eat. After several minutes, he waved her over and pointed to the game pie.

"I assume you'll be wantin' a drink with that, Mr. Weasley?" she presupposed, craning her neck as she scribbled down the order.

"A brandy would be nice," he admitted. "Could you make it a big one?"

She nodded. "Absolutely, sweetie. After that whole thing with your wife and that handsome Death Eater of hers, who could blame ya for all your drinkin'?"

"What's that s'posed to mean?" he asked through gritted teeth.

She shrugged. "I mean, not many women look at their husbands the way she was looking at that Malfoy bloke. The least a man in your position would do is drink a little."

"Can you just get me the bloody brandy?"

With sadness in her eyes, she placed her frail hand on his. "Of course, pumpkin. It's on the house."

* * *

The day moved slowly. By the time that the Minister for Magic was finished with the final hearing, it was nearly eight o' clock in the evening. Tired from the long workday, she Apparated home.

Ron was not in either of his usual spots in the house. He spent most of his time on the sofa or at the kitchen counter, so when Hermione saw that he was nowhere to be found, she was understandably confused. She called for him and walked down the hallway, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor as she made her way towards the bathroom. It was empty.

"Ron!" she called again, approaching the staircase. She yelled upwards. "Ron?"

When nobody responded, a small smile crept onto her face. After pulling off her shoes and her jacket, she twirled her wand. The shoes landed neatly beside the front door and her jacket hung itself up beside her favorite dragon-skin purse.

Her stomach growled, but she simply hushed it with a sustenance spell. Eager to enjoy her time away from her husband, she waltzed into her study and locked the door behind her. Immediately, she felt less stressed. The study had a way of doing that. She sat down at her desk and opened her old Arithmancy book, smiling as she thought about her visit with Draco. A teenage wizard stared back at her, wide-eyed.

Before she could even pull the picture out of the book, she heard her name being called. She rolled her eyes and closed the cover as Ron pounded on the door. He never left for long. Suddenly, she felt silly for thinking she could have an evening alone. Her husband always returned home, even if it was just to drink.

Defeated, she trudged to the door and opened it a crack, her dark eyes meeting Ron's. "What do you want?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Look, Hermione, I—I'm sorry."

"For?" she asked, crossing her arms. She did not believe that his apology was genuine. Ron was notoriously selfish and remorse was an emotion that only empathetic people could feel. Hermione knew that he wanted something in return. She just didn't know what it was.

"Well, y'know, the gala. I was an arse."

She nodded, stiffly, still unconvinced. "Yes, you were. Thanks for that."

He stared at her, taking in every line of her face. "And d'you have somethin' to say to me?"

"I already thanked you," she said, coldly. "What else do you want?"

"Oh, I dunno, Hermione!" he shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "An apology, maybe? For running off? For the restaurant? The gala? The Malfoy thing?"

"I have nothing to be sorry for. I haven't done anything wrong." While she knew that was not entirely true, she did not feel that she needed to justify herself to her foul husband. His apology was nothing more than a way for him to wrestle her into admitting guilt. She was too clever to fall for it.

"Are you serious?" he scoffed, towering over her. "You know, I don't think you were even _at_ a motel the other night."

"Well, you would be wrong, then, Ronald," she spat, even though it was a lie. "You know, usually when you come to apologize to someone, you're not supposed to begin accusing them all in the same breath."

"I'm not the only one that's done wrong here, Hermione," he said, venom in his tone. He bent over, bringing his face dangerously close to hers. "Excuse me for wanting to know what my _wife_ has been doing behind my back."

She leered at him. "No worse than what you do right in front of me."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he growled, balling his fists.

Hermione sighed, taking a step back. "The kids are going to be coming home for holiday soon. We can't act like this in front of them. They can't see you like this."

"Like _what?_ " he asked, narrowing his eyes. "They can't see me like _what_ , exactly, Hermione?"

"Oh Merlin, Ron, you know _exactly_ what I mean. You're drunk, you're tetchy, you're irresponsible, you can't keep the house tidy. It's bad for the children, so you need to quit it. While they're here, you need to _behave_."

He stared at her for another moment, the severest form of pure hatred in the depths of his azure eyes. Before he could say anything else, Hermione shut the door in his face and locked it.

"You're sleeping on the sofa again tonight!" he shouted, the closed door muffling his voice only minutely. "It's your turn to deal with all the backaches!"

Hermione stretched her spine and went back to her desk. As she buried her face in her hands, she wondered if her brother-in-law and Draco Malfoy were right. Perhaps, she needed to reevaluate their holiday plans. Perhaps, she was wrong to let Ron be around their children at all.


	18. Perfidy

Anxiety had become part of the Minister for Magic's everyday life. As her assistant sat across from her, she mulled over her schedule for the day. There was an overwhelming amount of paperwork that needed to be done after the previous day's numerous hearings, and she hoped to have more time to finish all of it. Unfortunately, her Tuesday was chockfull of more meetings.

"This won't work, Madelyn," she said, shaking her head. She looked up at the redhead. "I have to meet with someone for lunch. Would it be possible to block out some more time to get all of this paperwork sorted, as well?"

"I m-must have missed that." Madelyn frowned and flipped through the large planner in her hand. "Who were y-you supposed to be meeting with?"

"Uh—the Headmaster of Ilvermorny," Hermione lied. "Surely, I mentioned it?"

"N-not that I remember, but I probably just m-misheard you. I-I didn't even realize the headmaster was in town. Gob didn't mention anything." Madelyn was clearly confused.

"Yes, it was a last minute kind of ordeal. Perhaps I forgot to tell you yesterday," Hermione mumbled, reaching out to seize a pile of paperwork. "Merlin's beard, this is _such_ a waste of parchment."

Exasperated, Madelyn said, "Well, I-I suppose I can ask Owen Whittlewood and Galvin Bixby to reschedule again. That would free up some time in the morning and right around lunch."

"That would be perfect," Hermione replied. She gave Madelyn a dark look. "By the way, this is a _private_ meeting. Nobody is to know of it, not even Gob."

Madelyn looked uncertain. The request was unsettling. It was the same way that she felt when the Minister asked her to retrieve Draco Malfoy's address. Nevertheless, assisting the Minister was her job, even if she disagreed with her intentions.

"I'll make an excuse."

Hermione nodded, waving her away. "Yes, yes. Please do that."

Madelyn agreed and stepped out of her boss's office, her stomach gurgling with nervousness. Canceling meetings was her least favorite part of the job. Witches and wizards waited months to get their ten minutes with the Minister for Magic and she was forced to take that away from them.

Hermione, on the other hand, did not think twice when it came to such things. She wholeheartedly believed that meetings were a waste of her precious time, as they never led to immediate resolutions. If somebody wanted to accomplish something, they would be better off sending her the paperwork.

After a deep breath, she dove into the parchments on her desk, eager to keep herself busy until she could meet with the handsome wizard she felt so drawn to.

* * *

Steam billowed from two teacups on the wooden dining room table. Draco Malfoy placed two bowls of homemade stew beside the tea-filled china, basking in its earthy aroma as it touched his nose. If it had been two weeks prior, he would not have been confident that his guest would show. Alas, after their last visit, he knew that she was coming. The glint in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

He sat down at the table and blew on his tea, awaiting her arrival. After chopping vegetables and mutton for nearly thirty minutes, he used his best heating spells to prepare the delicious meal. Malfoys were known for needing instant gratification, and Draco was no exception to the rule, so it was unlike him to spend so much time making lunch. He hoped that his guest would appreciate all of his hard work.

Barely five minutes later, he heard a knock at the door. He put his teacup down on the saucer and walked to the door, a small smirk on his face. Familiar gaunt features and nervous, umber eyes greeted him. She looked so much like she did when they were teenagers, conflicted by her feelings for her childhood bully.

"Good afternoon," he welcomed her, beckoning her inside.

"It's not afternoon yet," Hermione pointed out. "It's twelve."

He closed the door. "According to _my_ clock, it's three after."

Her eyes darted to the small grandmother clock on the wall. "I suppose you're right."

They sat down at the table and Draco raised his brows. "I do hope you enjoy the stew. I made it myself."

"You didn't get a house-elf to do it for you?" she asked with a smirk. "Impressive for a Malfoy. I thought the sausage and toast was a fluke."

He shoveled a spoonful of the mutton stew into his mouth. "If I do say so myself, it's quite superb. You'll notice that I chopped all of the ingredients flawlessly. You may not recall, but I had quite a knack for that back in school."

Hermione rolled her eyes, taking a bite of a large chunk of mutton and carrot. "You really were a master at cutting up frog brains. Maybe _you_ ought to be the Minister for Magic. Then _you_ can go to all the pointless hearings and painfully boring meetings."

"Cheeky, Granger," he said with a smirk. "Has the office been busy, then?"

She nodded. "Quite. We have this terrible woman that keeps arresting people for the most _ridiculous_ misdemeanors. Of course, I get stuck with the paperwork _every_ time."

Draco bit into a dumpling and swallowed. "I thought Potter made those calls?"

Hermione sighed. "He's _supposed_ to, but he's been working out of the area a lot. Crime is low enough that it's beneficial for him to take care of the few high profile criminals out there. He's dubbed this woman his 'second-in-command'." She made air quotes and shoveled vegetables onto her spoon. "I allowed it because, well, it made sense for someone to assume his role when he can't be reached. The stew is delicious, by the way."

"Are you going to have her canned, then?"

"Perhaps. I think Harry is going to talk to her. It doesn't matter, though. I'd rather not think about work, honestly. This is my break from that."

He waited a moment before changing the subject. "I suppose we'll both be quite busy what with the holidays and all."

"I suppose so," she murmured. "My assistant is picking up Rose and Hugo tomorrow. It'll be quite a pain having them hanging all over me at the office, but I'd rather that than—well, I think it's just best if they stay with me."

The tea burned Draco's tongue as he took another sip, but it had become a nervous habit. When he was thinking of something to say, it was an easy way to stop and ponder. Fortunately for him, she did not seem to notice.

"Ron has me sleeping on the sofa," Hermione admitted, stirring her stew with her spoon.

Draco furrowed his brow. "Well, that's an unusual arrangement. You have no spare bedroom, then? Do you not live in that big place in Godric's Hollow anymore?"

She shrugged. "We still do. I converted one of the rooms into a study and knocked out some walls to put in a library upstairs. There are still the children's rooms, of course, but it feels wrong to sleep there when I'm fighting with their father. Honestly, I don't go upstairs much at all."

He swallowed another bite of mutton, inwardly noting that it needed a bit more black pepper. "Any reason why?"

"I think it just feels strange when the kids are gone," she explained. She lifted her teacup to her lips. "Occasionally, I'll slip into the library if I'm looking for a particular book, but it's eerily empty up there. Ron doesn't go up there much either, though I suspect it's because he doesn't like to climb stairs."

"Understandable," Draco replied. "It feels quite empty here too without Astoria and Scorpius. I enjoy it sometimes, though. It gives me time for my hobbies."

Hermione laughed, scraping up the last of the stew. "Right, because you don't have a job."

"Malfoys don't _need_ jobs, Granger. We have far more important things to do," he said before downing his tea. "Besides, if I had a job, I wouldn't be able to make you such a scrumptious meal on a Tuesday afternoon. What would you do then?"

A blush crept onto her cheeks. "I suppose I'd probably be a better Minister. You're always making me late and I'm ages behind on my paperwork."

With a smirk, he chimed, "More important than your fancy government job, am I? I suppose I should've changed the bed sheets. I didn't know we were having _that_ kind of lunch."

She rolled her eyes. "This lunch is just as professional as any that I would have with my colleagues."

"You'd have no problem telling Weasley you're here, then?" he challenged, fire in his grey eyes. "Should I just send him a quick owl to let him know your whereabouts?"

Hermione coughed on her tea. She and her husband argued enough without him knowing that she had been meeting with Draco Malfoy far more often than she had claimed. Unless she wanted to spend the rest of her married life sleeping on the sofa, Ron could never find out about their friendship.

"I didn't think so," Draco chortled. He waved his wand and the dirty dishes were sparkling clean. He flicked the wand one more time and they all stacked themselves neatly in the cupboards. The only dish left was Hermione's cup of tea and its respective saucer.

"Do you really think he shouldn't be around the kids?" she asked, abruptly, tracing her index finger around the rim of the teacup.

"I would think you'd be a better judge of that," Draco replied. "Though, if you feel the need to ask me, you probably already know the answer, don't you?"

She rested her chin in her palm, her elbow planted on the table. "That's why they're coming to the office with me tomorrow. I don't feel comfortable leaving them with him."

He nodded. "Well, if you need somewhere for them to go during the day, I'm sure Scorpius wouldn't mind seeing them and I could use an excuse to stop by my parents' to see him. Happy to take them any time."

Hermione snorted. "I'm sure your parents would just _love_ you bringing my little half-blood children over there for a play-date with their perfect pure-blooded grandson."

Draco chuckled. "You may have a point, Granger."

"We probably won't be able to have these little get-togethers quite as often until the holidays are over, will we?" she realized, sadness in her tone. He had mentioned how busy they would be, but she did not consider what he meant until that exact moment. "Just when I was getting used to eating home-cooked meals again."

"There's always January," he pointed out. Then his lips curled into a smirk. "And you and Weasley are always welcome to drop in with the kids. I have no problem cooking for five."

Hermione nearly choked on her nervous laughter. "Oh, I'm sure _that_ would be _brilliant_."

"In all seriousness, though, you're free to stop by tomorrow, if you like. I imagine the kids won't be in until the train shows?" Draco asked. "That won't be until well past lunchtime."

She mulled over the idea. The holidays were the perfect time for her to create a boundary between her and Draco, once and for all. She could chalk up their flirtatious rendezvous as a coping mechanism and her marriage would be safe. Yet, deep down, she knew that she wanted to see Draco as often as she possibly could. Deep down, she knew she wanted Draco more than she ever wanted her marriage to work.

"I know that look, Granger. You want to say yes but you're too stuck in your own head to be honest with me."

She inhaled, sharply. He read her like a book, just like he always did. "Same time tomorrow, then?"

He nodded. "Same time."

"Speaking of time, what time _is_ it?" she asked, turning around in an attempt to see the grandmother clock in the adjacent kitchen.

Draco leaned back to look at the clock in the living room. "Twelve thirty."

"I ought to be going," she murmured, standing up and pushing in her chair. "I have a meeting at a quarter to one. Thank you again for lunch."

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then?"

She smiled, her face pink. "Yes, tomorrow."

With those final words, she Disapparated. Draco stared at the spot where she had been standing, wondering when she would finally come to her senses and accept their destiny.


	19. Motherly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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Gob Strothers had an office unlike any other in the building. Newspaper articles and autographed photographs adorned the domed walls, leading all the way to a floor covered in stacks of books, magazines, and scribbled notes. Whispers of "packrat" usually fell from his visitors' lips, but Madelyn had grown quite used to it. As she entered the tiny room, she carefully stepped over a pile of books and zigzagged her way to the empty chair beside his desk.

"Madelyn MacBain," he acknowledged her. "Just who I was looking for."

She wrung her hands and nodded. "W-what did y-you want to see me about?" Gob made her more nervous even than the Minister for Magic. His demands were sharp and his expressions stern.

There were dozens of stacks of newspapers surrounding and on top of his large desk, some local, some not. Many of the heaps went all the way to the ceiling, but he seemed to know exactly where everything was. He waved his wand and several of the papers floated down into his long, bony fingers. Madelyn watched his arm emerge from in between the ceiling-high stacks, only catching glimpses of his weak chin and twinkling black eyes as she reached out to accept the handful of pages.

Each publication was written in Cyrillic. Madelyn was confused, but Gob reached out again, this time with his wand, and shouted, " _Transferendum anglicus!_ "

All of a sudden, the letters morphed into the alphabet that she recognized. When she read the first headline, she thought her eyes had to be deceiving her.

"Do you care to explain what this is all about?" he asked, raising his dark brows.

Madelyn gripped the paper tightly between her fingers. She felt a sudden sense of betrayal as her eyes scanned the page. The Russian Minister for Magic had called her the foulest word she knew, a word that she knew her boss to hate as well. The Minister for Magic never would have met with him of her own accord after such disrespect. It went against everything that she stood for.

"This g-has to be some m-mistake," she stammered. "F-foreign propaganda, p-perhaps?"

Gob shook his head. "Fydor Sokolov may be a lot of things, but a bloody liar isn't one of them. He proofreads every newspaper before it's even _allowed_ to be published. From what I'm reading here, our lovely Minister has promised not only to be allies but also to let them borrow our Aurors should their Muggle issue get out of hand. Do you have any idea what that could entail?"

Madeyln's heart was pounding in the walls of her chest. She shook her head. "N-no."

"It _means_ that she would send Aurors to assist with this silly fight they've been having with Muggles for centuries," he spat. "They claim the Muggles are out to murder their witches but they leave out an important detail. They set fire to these Muggles' homes. They cursed their children. The Russian Ministry may not see it that way, but those are the facts. This is not a war we want to be involved in, and if the Minister had done even a little bit of research, she would've known all of this."

"She a-always does her research," she whispered.

"Either she didn't this time or she endorses senseless attacks on Muggles. Pick one, MacBain."

"She r-researches everything before she agrees t-to it."

"Well, I think she made a distracted decision this time—a decision that could cost her and the entire country."

"Sh-she wouldn't," Madelyn said again, shaking her head. "She c-couldn't."

"And just why the hell not?" he asked, darkly. "She hasn't been quite right lately, has she? Why not this? Are you telling me that she wasn't late for that meeting with him? A birdie told me that he stormed out within ten minutes of his arrival. Surely, she didn't have anything to do with that?"

Madelyn fixed her eyes on the floor.

"You thought I wouldn't find out," he hissed, "but I know more about her _shenanigans_ than you think I do. I didn't know the beak would bite the owl's ass on this one, so I left it alone. I have to choose my battles."

After swallowing hard, she whispered, "D-do you think she'll get in trouble? I mean, n-nobody reads Russian papers, right?" She was desperately trying to escape her own emotions, yet she could not. Her voice caught as she uttered the last few words.

Gob steepled his fingers. "Most don't. Writers at the _Prophet_ might if they hear about this. Then, we'll have to ready ourselves for some serious damage control. That's where _you_ come in—to keep an eye on that ever-so-secretive schedule of hers."

Madelyn frowned. "I-I don't understand."

"No more missing meetings, no more little missions down to the archives." He pushed a large stack of papers aside, several of them floating onto the floor. Staring at her with his beady eyes, he smirked. "Another thing you thought I didn't know about, hm?"

She was silent.

"You aren't as sneaky as you think, MacBain," he said, pointedly. "With that being said, I need you to tighten her leash. Tell her off when she's trying to go Merlin-knows-where. I may not know the details, but I have a feeling the public wouldn't like the truth if they found it out. If she wants to keep her position, she better clean up her act, and you're the only person that has access to that bloody schedule."

"She w-won't listen to me." Madelyn chewed on her lip. "Sh-she never does."

"Well, I suggest you make her listen," he snarled, wagging a finger at her, "because if you don't, you'll _both_ be out of a job."

Madelyn gulped. "I-I'll try."

"Good. Now, get out of my office."

She stood up and exhaled, stepping over the dozens of newspapers. As she opened the door to exit the room, a particular magazine caught her eye. The Headmaster of Ilvermorny stared back at her, his eyes blue and full of life. Then, she noticed the date.

"Can I take this?" she asked, firmly, seizing the magazine.

Gob waved her away. "Fine, fine."

With that, the livid redhead stormed towards the Minister for Magic's office.

* * *

Hermione Granger was shuffling through paperwork when she heard three hard knocks on her office door. Rarely did anyone knock with such force, so she assumed it had to be important. To her surprise, the intruder was nobody important at all. It was only her petite assistant.

"Ah, Madelyn!" she exclaimed. "Wonderful. I was looking for you earlier."

Madelyn slowly walked inside, deciding that it was best not to mention her meeting with Gob. The door shut behind her and she jumped a little before clearing her throat. "Minister."

There was a fire to her tone that Hermione did not like. Nonetheless, she elaborated, hoping that she had only imagined it. "Yes, so the Hogwarts Express should be in at three thirty. I'll need you to grab the children and bring them back here. I will be taking my lunch offsite today, so—"

"Offsite, ma'am?" Madelyn asked, the same fire in her tone.

The Minister for Magic leaned back in her chair. "Yes. I'm going home to eat lunch with my husband," she lied. She narrowed her eyes. "Madelyn, is something troubling you?"

Madelyn gave her a stiff smile. The fire was gone and replaced with her usual nervousness. "No, M-Minister. Y-you just have been l-leaving a lot l-lately."

Hermione frowned. "As most public office holders do. I have business, Madelyn. Not all business happens here at headquarters. Fortunately, today I get a break from all that. Ron is making his famous bangers and mash." Lie after lie fell so naturally from her lips. Ron was not famous for any kind of cooking, yet the detail seemed to strengthen her alibi.

After inhaling, Madelyn nodded. She remembered what Gob had told her, yet she could not bring herself to stand up to her boss. After all, she had no proof that she was lying to her and she wasn't actually canceling any meetings. "I'll be p-picking up the ch-children at three thirty, then."

"Yes, precisely," Hermione agreed. She looked Madelyn up and down, skeptically. "Are you sure that nothing is the matter?"

With a nod, Madelyn replied, "Of course not, M-Minister. A-always a pleasure."

As her assistant left her office, Hermione noticed that she had been hiding a magazine behind her back. Although she could not quite make out what was on the cover, she knew that it had to be the reason that the redheaded woman was acting so strangely.

* * *

Freezing rain pattered against the windows of Draco Malfoy's small cottage. He twiddled his thumbs, a piece of hunter's pie and a cup of tea in front of him and another place at his dining room table. It would not be long until a certain bushy-haired Gryffindor was on his doorstep.

He heard a knock on the door and quickly stood to open it. Hermione's drenched locks stuck to her face as she stepped inside, a quiet blush on her pale cheeks. He took her jacket from her and hung it up before quietly closing the door.

"Good afternoon. Bit wet out there?"

She laughed, brushing her hair from her face and pulling off her navy pumps. "Just a bit." As she set her purse beside her shoes, she frowned and sniffed the air. "Is that perfume?"

A surge of jealousy ran through her as the expensive perfume permeated her nostrils. It had hints of vanilla and coffee, but it was dark and sultry, unlike Hermione's signature scent. She suddenly felt immature, as her favorite cheap fragrance featured notes of butterbeer and caramel. It was not nearly as seductive as the aroma lingering in the air of Draco's home.

"Probably," Draco said with a shrug. "My mother stopped by this morning."

Hermione let out a sigh of relief. "Yes, of course. Your mother."

He smirked a little as he pulled out a chair for her. "Jealous for a moment there, Granger?"

"No!" she exclaimed, her face reddening. As she sat down in the chair, Draco seated himself across from her, the smirk still on his youthful face. "I just—it just smelled good is all."

Draco chuckled. "Surely you don't think I'm _that_ stupid."

Still red, Hermione raised her brows and changed the subject. "I've never seen cheese on shepherd's pie before."

"It's not shepherd's pie," he corrected. "It's hunter's pie—venison instead of lamb. Personally, I prefer it."

After blowing on a forkful of potatoes, cheese, onions, and meat, she shoveled it into her mouth. Her eyes widened with surprise. "It's quite delicious, actually."

"I'm surprised you've never had it," he replied. "Dobby used to make it often."

Hermione did her best to brush off the sadness at the mention of Dobby's name. "As I've said before, I don't usually eat home-cooked meals."

He bit into a carrot and swallowed. "I must have missed that. You and Weasley don't cook?"

She sighed. "I do sometimes, but nothing that takes much preparation. It really shouldn't take long with heating spells and all, but we don't like to—well, never mind. I suppose it doesn't matter." She gave him a small smile and continued eating the scrumptiously gamey meal.

"So you'll have the kids back today, then?" Draco asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, my assistant is picking them up once the train comes in." She stabbed a carrot. "Ron couldn't exactly be trusted with that responsibility so, of course, it's more to put on her plate. I don't think she was very happy about it."

"Well, you're right about Weasley," he replied. "You probably made the responsible choice."

"I sure hope so," she mumbled. "I asked her to bring them back to the office for today, but I worry about them being home with him for the rest of their holiday."

"You still have options, you know," he reminded her. "That's why my mother stopped by, actually. She wanted me to go to the station with her."

With her mouth full, Hermione inquired, "Are you going to go?"

"I don't think so," Draco said, frowning. "It's a bit hard on him without his mother around. I'll stop by tonight, maybe, but it's better if my mother picks him up alone."

She gave him an inquisitive look. "Don't you think he needs his father, Draco?"

"Obviously he does," he snapped, giving her a dark look. It reminded her of the glares he gave her in their first several years at Hogwarts. "I'll see him when it's best for him."

Frowning, she whispered, "I'm sorry. I know it's not my business."

He ran his tongue across his teeth. "You're right. It's not."

There was an awkward silence as Hermione mulled over his situation with his son. To her, it seemed as though Scorpius needed to see his father more rather than less, but admittedly, she knew nothing about the young boy or their relationship.

As she finished her starchy slab of hunter's pie, she considered how different the holidays would be if she left her children with her in-laws. Their darling faces brought her so much joy for the short two weeks that they spent with her, but as she thought about her husband's alcoholism, her heart broke. Each time that they saw him drunk, they looked so disappointed. He betrayed them, and she betrayed them whenever she let it happen.

"You know, my children would probably be better off with Ron's parents," she confessed after several minutes. "Maybe you're onto something."

He knit his brows together, swallowing his last bite. "You're considering it, then? To get them away from Weasley?"

She exhaled. "Yes."

"Why don't you just ask them? They've already raised Merlin-knows-how-many children. I'm sure a couple weeks with yours wouldn't make much difference."

Hermione chuckled. "They'd be delighted, but Ron would—well, I think he'd want to know why. It wouldn't be an easy conversation."

Draco sipped his tea. "I have a feeling you don't have many easy conversations with him, anyway."

"You aren't exactly wrong."

"There's no shame in talking to his mother about it," he suggested, lacing his fingers together. "I don't exactly _like_ leaving Scorpius with my parents, but it's what he wants."

Hermione chewed on her lip. "Do you worry about him staying there, given your father's past and all?"

He inhaled, sharply. "No. My father has changed since Astoria passed. In all honesty, he's probably a better parent than I am, nowadays."

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco."

Draco shrugged. "He cares for him more than he ever cared for me, and frankly, I'm glad."

Hermione reached across the table to touch his hand. "You're a good father. You've done what you think is best for him." She pulled her hand away and frowned. "It's more than I can say I've done."

He did not respond. Concerns regarding his only child had washed over him, and as much as he admired the woman sitting in his dining room, she felt miles away. He was not sure if he was doing right by his son, even if it was what he had asked for. Perhaps, he should have forced him to spend the holidays with him. Perhaps, he was wrong to let him stay with his parents. While he quietly judged Hermione for exposing her children to her toxic husband, he judged himself for his own parenting choices as well.

"Look, I have to get back for some afternoon meetings," Hermione said, reaching out to squeeze his hand again. "Just go see him tonight, okay? You'll feel better."

"Who said I was feeling bad?" he growled.

She rolled her eyes and stood. "You forget, Malfoy, I _know_ you."

"Using my own words against me. Typical, Granger," he muttered, following her as she slipped on her jacket and pumps. She slung her purse over her shoulder. Both sadness and intent were in his grey eyes as he watched her. "Tomorrow?"

Her face was pink, and although she knew she should have turned down the invitation, she nodded. "Tomorrow it is."

* * *

Meeting after meeting passed by in a blur. The Minister for Magic tapped her quill against her chin, eager to see her two children. Every word that was spoken to her went in one ear and out the other as she thought about their innocent smiles and their warm, loving embraces. Nothing that Pudius Fetch had to say was interesting enough to distract her from their impending visit.

As she finally left her last meeting for the day, she hurried to her office, hoping to find them waiting for her. When she opened the door and discovered that the room was empty, she frowned. It was four thirty, meaning that they should have been there at least thirty minutes prior. Confused, she stormed out and ran down the many corridors that led to Madelyn's tiny office. Not bothering to knock, she flung open the door and glowered at the petite redhead.

"Where are they?" she boomed.

Madelyn was shaking. "Where a-are who?"

"Rose and Hugo! My children!" Hermione screeched, slamming her hands on the desk in front of her. "You were supposed to pick them up!"

"I d-did," Madelyn replied, perplexedly. "I-I dropped them o-off."

" _Where_ did you drop them off?" Hermione hissed, towering over her.

"A-at your h-house," she said, her voice small. "Was th-that wrong?"

"Ugh! You were _supposed_ to bring them _here_ ," Hermione exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "Now they're home with Ron and they'll have to see him dr—" She paused to take a deep breath, pacing back and forth. "No, it's okay. Everything is okay."

"D-do you w-want me to go p-pick them up?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, it is what it is. I didn't mean to snap. It's just—well, I _did_ tell you to bring them here. Anyone else in this building would probably fire you for a mistake like this, Madelyn. I know I ask a lot of you, but this was the single most important thing for you not to screw up."

"I-I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter if you didn't mean it or not," Hermione cut her off. "Now they're home with Ron and Merlin knows what kind of state he's in!"

"He's th-their father," Madelyn stuttered. "I-I thought i-it would be fine."

"Well, it's _not_ fine. I'm going to let this one go, but next time, I don't know what I'll have to do," Hermione warned, wagging her finger. "You're a good assistant, Madelyn, but sometimes you're so absolutely, astonishingly absentminded—"

Suddenly, the anger that Madelyn had felt all day had overtaken her. No longer was she afraid. She only felt rage.

"Well, maybe if you weren't too busy spending so much time with Fyodor Sokolov and that _Death Eater_ , you could've taken a few hours off to pick up your _own_ children," Madelyn scowled, getting to her feet. She slapped the magazine she had been holding earlier in front of the Minister for Magic. "Good luck finding someone else to cover up your constant lies, Hermione, because I _quit_."

In awe, Hermione looked at the magazine in front of her. The Headmaster of Ilvermorny adorned the cover. The previous day's date was plastered across it, along with text that read, "AGILBERT FONTAINE ON LOVE, DELUSIONS, AND QUIDDITCH—SEE HIM SPEAK AT THE BLACKFORT ATRIUM IN PHILADELPHIA".

"Look, Madelyn," Hermione cooed as her fed up assistant packed her belongings, "you're right. I was visiting Draco Malfoy again. I should've told you."

Shaking her head, Madelyn twirled her wand and watched all of her items pile into her bottomless bag. The Minister had, regrettably, gifted it to her on her first day.

"Please, don't go," Hermione begged. "I _need_ you, Madelyn. I'm sorry for accusing you. I just worry about my kids a-and Draco's wife passed away—"

"Do you really think that's it? Consorting with a Death Eater is bad enough, but besides that, you don't even respect me!" Madelyn growled, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "I _never_ stand up to you. _I_ have to explain your absences. _I_ have to pick up the pieces. I do _everything_ for you, but you _still_ treat me like absolute rubbish!"

Hermione touched her arm, comfortingly, her eyes pleading. "Madelyn, please. I can't replace you. I was wrong."

Madelyn stared at her for a moment, considering the consequences if she quit. She had rent to pay, but if the situation did not change, the stress was not worth any amount of Galleons. "You've changed, Minister. I need you to be the strong, honest woman I originally came to work for. If I stay, you can't lie anymore—not to me, at least."

Hermione inhaled. "No more lying. I can manage that."

"And _no_ more seeing that Death Eater friend of yours," Madelyn added, her hand on her hip.

Hermione chewed on her lip. She had just promised not to lie, but she was about to do it again. "No more Draco Malfoy."

* * *

After a long and exasperating day, Hermione hoped to be pleasantly surprised when she arrived home. It had been far too long since she had seen the beaming faces of her sweet children. Keen to see them both, she Apparated to her house in Godric's Hollow. Unfortunately, she was immediately overwhelmed by the sour smell of her husband's vomit.

"Mum!" Rose exclaimed, rushing over to her. She threw her arms around her mother's neck.

Hermione squeezed her, suddenly forgetting about the putrid smell. "Hi, honey!" She kissed the top of her head. "How was your first term?"

"Good," Rose replied, smiling. "I did perfect on all of my midyear exams." She frowned. "Well, except for Potions."

Hugo was quick to follow, hugging his mother around the middle. "Hi, Mum!"

"Hello, pumpkin-cakes," Hermione smiled, ruffling his brown hair. She frowned and looked around the living room. "Where's your father?"

"Dad's been locked up in the bathroom since we got here," Hugo chimed, plugging his nose. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You don't want to go near there."

She clenched her teeth as her eyes found a pile of vomit by the sofa. "So he hasn't fed you, then?"

"No, he's had me slip him beers through the crack of the door, though," Rose noted, slyly. "So I suppose he's already had _his_ dinner."

Hermione sighed. Her daughter was old enough to be well aware of her father's state, but Ron had no right to subject her to his illness.

"Well, run along and play. I'll make something," Hermione said. "Go on, now!"

Her two children ran upstairs to their respective bedrooms and she rubbed her temples. She was right to be concerned. Ron clearly was not capable of caring for their children and with her responsibilities at the Ministry, she was not sure that she was either.


	20. Noisy

Hermione desperately needed a full night of sleep after a long, grueling day. To her misfortune, a loud crash awoke her from slumber. She slowly opened her eyes, frowning as she realized that it was still dark outside. Hoping not to worry the children, she had invited Ron to sleep beside her, but strangely enough, he was nowhere to be found.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and reached for her wand. "Ron?" she whispered, tying her burgundy robe to one side. "Ron, was that you?"

As she padded into the hallway, she heard another sound, except this time, the giggles of her children accompanied it. Frowning, she peered at the grandfather clock in the hallway. It was barely five in the morning.

"…a dung bomb," Ron finished.

Holding her arms close to her chest, Hermione stepped into the living room. Her husband and her children were sprawled across the floor, their eyes fixed on a bubbling potion. It hissed and spat as he drizzled a mystery ingredient into it, grinning madly. She smiled at the three of them.

"What do we have here?" she asked, squatting down beside Hugo. "Is your father showing you his new invention?"

Hugo beamed at her. "He's making a dung bomb, Mum! Axel Winston brought one once, but Filch took it away."

"It's not finished yet," Ron reminded him. "Don't go tryin' to make this at school just to piss off Filch, yeah? Not 'til it's done." He gave his son a mischievous smirk.

Hermione noticed that he had a bottle of beer beside him. Her stomach churned a little, but she pushed her feelings aside. He was bonding with their children, and even though she worried about him doing it on the living room carpet, it was more than she could have expected from him.

"Are you going to sell this at Uncle George's shop?" Rose asked, smiling brightly. Rarely could she be proud of anything that her father did, but for once, he had done something worth bragging about.

Ron nodded, drawing away from the small, sputtering cauldron. "Once it's finished. It's taken some time. Dungbombs—the Gambol and Japes ones—were already popular when your mother and I were kids, but I think they need a bit of a rebrand—a makeover. I'm talkin' twice the smell, stinkin' for twice as long. We'll rebrand 'em with the Weasley name. Your old man will forever be known for perfectin' dung bombs as we know them." He spoke of the stinking joke products as if they were his own children.

"What are you going to call them, Dad?" Hugo asked, intrigued. "If they're better, you can't just call 'em any old thing, can you?"

"That's exactly right, buddy. I've been thinkin' of names, but I keep comin' back to 'Ron Weasley's Double Dung Bomb'," he said, dreamily. "Space between the 'dung' and the 'bomb'. I think Gambol and Japes has some sort of copyright on making it all one word. We already got sued by 'em once. Would prefer to avoid _that_ again..."

"Ron Weasley's Double Dung Bomb," Hugo repeated.

"Rolls off the tongue, dunnit?" Ron noted, proudly. "We used to play with 'em as kids, but I always knew they could be better. Who's gonna improve 'em if not me?"

"Can we have some before you sell them?" Hugo was excited, eager to show his friends his father's invention. " _Please?_ "

"Of course," Ron replied, ruffling his son's hair. "As many as you want."

The potion bubbled over onto the pewter carpet and Hermione made a face. Plugging her nose, she leaned forward to put out the flame. "Okay, okay. Dung bombs off the carpet."

Hugo excitedly carried the cauldron to the countertop, begging his father to teach him more about the invention. Rose, however, sat on the floor, staring at the spot on the carpet for a long moment. She feared that her parents were about to argue in front of her and her little brother just when they were starting to have fun.

"You decided to start working on it again, then?" Hermione asked, brushing against Ron's arm.

He nodded. "Well, with the kids home and all, think I just got inspired."

She smiled. "Just keep it off the carpet. I don't want to wake up to a fire."

"Sure," he agreed. "Sorry for wakin' you."

She waved her wand and the stain dissipated. "It's no big deal. I'm glad you did, actually."

Before she could sit on the sofa to bond with her family, Ron picked up his beer and chugged it. Hermione chewed on her lip as she watched Rose's face fall. Her daughter gave her a pleading look.

"Ron, maybe you could keep the beers to a minimum," she said, lightly.

"I only have eight left, anyway," he pointed out.

"What about the firewhisky?"

"I'm nearly out."

"Well, just don't drink with the kids around," she urged, a nervous smile on her lips. Arguing with him was the last thing that she wanted to do, but she could tell that her daughter needed him to be sober. "You can do whatever you want when I get home—at a more appropriate hour."

"Dad!" Hugo shouted. "Dad, the potion stopped stinkin'!"

Ron sauntered towards the counter, well aware of his wife's request. "Rose, pumpkin, can you bring Daddy another beer?"

Rose looked up at her mother, her eyes watering as she stood to fetch her father his intoxicant. Hermione gave her a poignant look. She did not know if she would do more damage by fighting with him or by letting him drink around her children.

Ron graciously accepted the beer from his eldest child and unscrewed the top. He glared at his wife as he chugged the entire bottle, despite the early morning hour. Hugo was preoccupied with the potion and the ingredients in front of him, but Rose was acutely aware of the tension.

"Keep it slow today." Her voice was firm.

"I'll try." It was unconvincing at best.

Although she knew that he was lying, she nodded. "I'm going to try and get another couple hours of sleep before I have to head into the office." Her eyes darted to Rose. "Wake me up if you need _anything_ , okay?"

Rose nodded.

"We'll be just fine, won't we?" Ron asserted, waving his wand at the potion on the counter to once more light the flame beneath it. He climbed onto the barstool beside his son and turned to look at his wife. "They've got their ol' dad."

Hermione and Rose exchanged sad glances before Hermione retired to her bedroom. Part of her wished that her children would follow her, but she also knew that it would only start an argument between her and her husband. Deep down, she knew that controlling themselves in front of Rose and Hugo would be impossible. They could not go two weeks without fighting.

* * *

Hermione was unsure how she felt as she pulled on her slingback pumps to go to work. The glimpse of her husband's good side was refreshing, but by the time that she had gotten up for the second time, she found him drunk and snoring on the sofa. Hugo was only inches from him and his spilled bottle of firewhisky, watching two enchanted action figures as they pummeled into one another.

"Are there breakfast pastries of some sort? Scones, maybe?" Rose asked, rifling through the pantry. A moment passed. "Mum?"

"Oh, um—I'm not sure," Hermione admitted. She felt like a terrible parent as she realized that there was not much to eat in the house. "I can go into the office late if you'd like me to make you and Hugo some eggs." Without a stovetop, there were only two ways to prepare a meal: summoning fire or using a heating charm. Rose was not old enough to do either.

The teenage redhead sighed. "No, it's fine. Dad drank all his beer so we'll have to go into town later, anyway. It looks like there are some Chocolate Frogs in the back here."

Hermione gave her a sad look as she pulled on her jacket. "I really _can_ go in late, dear. Chocolate Frogs are hardly suitable for breakfast."

"You've already had enough bad press this year, Mum," Rose quipped. "We'll manage."

After drawing in a deep breath, the middle-aged brunette asked, "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

Rose shrugged. "I suppose we have to be, don't we?"

"Well, you could come into the office with me," Hermione offered, frowning. "I could have Madelyn fetch you something to eat."

"I hate going there!" Hugo exclaimed, stomping into the kitchen. He turned his attention to his sister. "Can you toss me one of those Chocolate Frogs?"

Rose did as he asked and turned back to her mother. "We'll see you later, Mum. We'll be fine."

Unconvinced, Hermione nodded and kissed her daughter's forehead. Before her children could ask her for anything else, she Disapparated.

* * *

Phoebe Humphries crossed her arms and slowly paced up and down the large room. Her underlings stared back at her, their faces stern and their arms glued to their sides as she sized them up. Harry Potter was taking some time off to spend the holidays with his three children, leaving her in charge.

"As you know, we have quite a few arrests to get through today," she announced, still pacing. "I've left the paperwork with the Minister for Magic, who we _all_ know is going to have a bit of a tantrum."

A few of the Aurors chuckled, earning a glare from their superior. She cleared her throat, preparing to deliver the rest of her speech, before she was interrupted.

"Ma'am?" Milton Durden inquired.

Humphries stopped in front of him and narrowed her eyes. "What?"

He gulped. "Do you maybe think it's not such a good idea to make all these arrests? The Minister could have us all sacked, couldn't she?"

"Yes, well, I was just getting to that before you so _rudely_ interrupted me." She began pacing once more, her hands behind her back. "Our job is to make these arrests clean. Even if they annoy her, we have to be able to back up our choice to put these witches and wizards on trial. Can anyone tell me what I mean when I say that?"

Allison Beatty raised her hand. Humphries pointed at her and she recited, "Ma'am, it means that we cannot harm the detainees, ma'am!"

Humphries nodded. "Very good, Beatty. What else?"

Nelson Melman raised his hand. "It means that we have proof they committed the crime, ma'am!"

"Yes, exactly, Melman!" Humphries boomed. "And lastly?"

Slowly, Lyla Duncan raised her hand and whispered, "We get a confession, ma'am."

Humphries stopped pacing, a sly grin on her sharp face. "Well, boys and girls, it sounds like you all know what we're out to do today. Partner up and get to your assigned destinations."

With that, the Aurors found their partners and Disapparated.

* * *

Hermione Granger was displeased when she found a stack of parchment in her office. Usually, she did not mind paperwork, but after taking a closer look, she was infuriated.

"That bloody woman!" she seethed through gritted teeth.

Each piece of parchment informed her of a pointless arrest that Phoebe Humphries had planned. As she read about the misdemeanors, she only grew angrier. None of the witches or wizards being taken into custody had harmed anyone or anything. Some would be forced to go to Azkaban, while others would be questioned and sent back home until the date of their hearing. As Hermione saw the names of the accused, she was reminded how important her job was. It was up to her to stop such injustice.

Refusing to sign any of the paperwork, she dipped her quill in red ink and drew gigantic, angry X's across each piece of parchment. As she crossed out the final document, she heard a knock on her door.

"Come in!"

A small redhead slipped inside and said, "I didn't w-want to leave those with y-you today, I h-hope you know."

"I didn't want to read them," Hermione replied with a laugh. "I trust you're doing better today than yesterday?"

Madelyn nodded. "Y-yes'm."

"Wonderful. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Madelyn gave her a small smile and approached her. "Just d-delivering the day's s-schedule. It's quite slow t-today."

Hermione nodded, accepting the piece of parchment. "Only two meetings. Whatever did I do to earn such a treat?"

With a chuckle, Madelyn murmured, "Well, e-everyone is out of the o-office. A lot of f-folks on vacation to s-see their k-kids."

"Of course, of course," Hermione mumbled. "I wish I had the luxury, but at least I'll be spending lunch with them."

Madelyn suddenly became stiff. "You'll b-be leaving f-for lunch again?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Naturally, I'd like to spend some time with my children."

Although she had promised Madelyn that she would be truthful, she had put herself in a situation that made it quite difficult. Not even twenty-four hours had passed and she found herself lying to the woman that she trusted most. It put a lump in her throat, yet she carried on with the fib. Draco Malfoy had become one of the most important people in her life, and if she had to lie to her assistant to keep seeing him, she would do just that.

"I-I supposed I'll l-let you get b-back to your p-paperwork, then," Madelyn surrendered. Although she was skeptical, she felt that she had no grounds to argue. "L-let me know i-if you need anything."

Hermione nodded, struggling to keep her face straight. She had never been a good liar, yet over the past several weeks, she had become a professional. "Thank you, Madelyn."

The petite redhead fled the room and the Minister for Magic drew in a deep breath. If she had been the parent she wanted to be, she would have been going home to spend lunch with her children. Unfortunately, she did not know how to balance her career, motherhood, her failing marriage, and the man that brought her more joy than her husband ever did. Her stomach lurched as she considered going home instead of visiting the blond wizard.

As much as she wished she could make the matriarchal decision, she knew that she wouldn't. Not even her most important responsibilities would keep her from seeing the man that she so desperately wanted.


	21. Family

Narcissa Malfoy patted her beloved grandson on the head. The scent of fried eggs and sizzling bacon permeated the air and the entire Malfoy family, including Draco, sat at a grand, elongated table. In front of each of them was Narcissa's favorite emerald china and silverware. Draco quietly sipped his tea as an aged Lucius Malfoy scooted his mahogany chair closer to the table. Narcissa's gaze darted from her husband to her son to her grandson. There was an obvious awkwardness between the three Malfoy males; Lucius tried to lessen it by clearing his throat.

"Maridel should be finished soon," he announced, his piercing eyes shooting from Draco to Scorpius.

Narcissa flashed a small, uneasy smile. "I hope everyone slept well?"

"I did," Draco replied. "I appreciate the hospitality, Mother."

"Oh, it's a pleasure to have you, darling." She reached out to touch her son's arm. "Always a pleasure."

Scorpius rolled his eyes and turned away. He and his father had always had a strained relationship, but after his mother's death, their bond only diminished more. He and his only friend had not made the best decisions, and while his father always came to his aid, he still judged him. Scorpius never reacted well to being scolded. In fact, it usually made him act out more. Sadly, his father simply did not understand his only child. On the other hand, his mother always knew him better than she knew herself. As his living, emotionally deaf parent sat across from him, Scorpius craved her protective, long-armed embrace.

"Scorpius," Draco drawled, lacing his fingers together, "we did not get much of a chance to speak last night."

Scorpius had cleared his plate the night before, refusing to acknowledge anything that his father said to him. Of course, this tactic was so he could retreat to one of the many guestrooms before he had to spend too much time with his paternal figure. The only person that could have stopped him was his grandmother, and she was too tenderhearted to do so.

"And?" Scorpius crossed his arms.

Narcissa and Draco's eyes met. She bit her lip, feeling torn between her beloved son and her grieving grandchild. "Well, Scorpius, sweetie, how about you tell your father about your midyear exams? Tell him what you told Grandmummy."

"I did best of my year in all of them," he mumbled, not looking up from his still-empty plate.

"That's brilliant, son," Draco congratulated him. He cocked an eyebrow. "Even better than the Granger-Weasley girl?"

" _Dad_ ," Scorpius groaned. "It doesn't matter."

Draco held up his hands up in surrender. "No, of course not."

"Don't accept mediocrity, _Draco_. Of course it _matters_ ," Lucius hissed. "It's bad enough that that _Mudblood_ is the Minister for Magic. While my son may not have been able to outscore her in school, I would expect my grandson to outscore her and the blood traitor's idiotic hell-spawn."

Before the situation could become more awkward, a tiny house-elf wandered into the dining room, several platters of food hovering above her bow-laden head. She meekly clapped her hands, hoping not to upset her unhinged employer. Before he could reprimand her, eggs, bacon, sausage, scones, and beans floated from the levitating platters onto each of their emerald plates. A pitcher of pumpkin juice emptied itself into their goblets, and with a snap of her fingers, the platters lowered onto the grand table.

"Maridel hopes this humble meal pleases the almighty Lord Malfoy and his lovely family." She curtseyed, her two emerald bows moving with her.

Lucius cut into an egg and stabbed it with his fork. After putting it in his mouth and chewing on it for a moment, he sneered. "Under-seasoned _again_."

Maridel hung her head. "Lord Malfoy, my deepest apologies. It will not happen again."

"It better not," he growled, "or you'll be _fired_. Now get out of my sight."

Draco and his mother exchanged nervous glances as the elf sulked her way out of the dining room. Neither of them approved of the way that Lucius handled his employees, but they did not dare to argue with him. Even in his old age, he was cold and unapproachable to most. He had one soft spot, and he reserved that for his scholarly grandson.

Barely chewing, Scorpius shoveled food into his mouth as quickly as he could. It was the same way that he had eaten the night before, hurrying along so he did not have to make small talk with his father. He much preferred the company of his grandmother.

Narcissa bit into her lemon scone and swallowed it. "So, Draco, how have you been spending your time, lately? Still expanding your collection of family heirlooms?"

Draco nodded. "Always. It's incredible how many things were stolen. We never should have allowed those blasted Snatchers to enter our home." He shot a meaningful glare in his father's direction. They would not have visited so often if it were not for his many failures.

"Those people were animals," Narcissa replied, pointedly. She turned to her grandson. "Your father has taken it upon himself to get Grandmummy and your grandfather's things back. Perhaps, you could help him this summer."

"I'd rather go with you, Grandmum." Scorpius refused to meet Draco's eyes.

"Ah, I avoid such places," Narcissa admitted. "I'm just a bit too old to haggle with people of…lower status."

"You don't have to go, of course," Draco told his son. "But if you'd like to come along, we could always go shopping afterwards. There's a shop with rare books and other odds and ends in Knockturn Alley—just across from the butcher. I'll bet you'd find all sorts of treasures there." He raised his brows, hoping to entice Scorpius with promises of books that he could not even find in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library.

"Grandmum takes me book shopping all the time."

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by his father. "Have you found any items of value during your little excursions, Draco?"

"Some," he replied. "You're welcome to stop by the cottage and look any time."

"Speaking of that _cottage_ ," Lucius said the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth, "do you have any plans to move back into Malfoy Manor? Perhaps, you could return our belongings to the place where they belong?"

Scorpius peered at his father, curious to hear his answer.

"Well I—I don't think it's necessary," Draco stumbled over his words. "It's a bit large for just me and the boy."

Lucius arched an eyebrow. "Don't you think your son _deserves_ a large home? He _is_ a Malfoy, isn't he?"

Narcissa touched her husband's arm. "Lucius, leave it alone."

"No, it's fine," Draco sighed, setting his silverware down onto his plate. He planted his elbows onto the table and clasped his hands together, resting his chin just atop them. "I think my son deserves to grow up somewhere without unhappy memories. Unfortunately, that is all that that place has."

Lucius clenched his jaw. "So you plan to let it rot?"

"I've hired caretakers," Draco retorted. "The few valuable items that are there are protected by Dark Magic, so I suspect everything is preserved rather well. If Scorpius would prefer to live there, that's solely up to him."

The attention brought redness to Scorpius's cheeks. While he and his father disagreed on most things, they had the same disdain for Malfoy Manor. Far too many miserable memories lived and died under its black roof. When he visited his father in the summers, he much preferred the small cottage in Willow Ale Court.

"That cottage is hardly fit for pure-bloods," Lucius spat. "We've spent a fortune to move into this place so you and your family could have the manor and still, you choose to live in _squalor_."

"Lucius," Narcissa hissed, " _please_ just let us enjoy breakfast together."

He narrowed his eyes, but begrudgingly obeyed.

Scorpius scraped up the last of his egg yolk and chugged his juice. "Done," he announced, dropping his silverware onto the plate and excusing himself from the table.

"Scorpius—" Narcissa started, but before she could finish her thought, he had left the room and rushed up the stairs. She let out a sigh and touched her son's pale hand. "Draco, I promise you that we're trying. He's a moody teenager—it makes things much harder."

Draco nodded, sadly. "I know it, Mother. I suppose I ought to be going, anyway. I'm expecting a guest this afternoon and I should have a shower before she arrives."

She raised her blonde eyebrows. " _She?_ "

Lucius listened, carefully, wondering who his son could possibly be seeing. There were not many unmarried pure-bloods in his age group. In fact, he could only think of two.

"I think I'm a bit old to discuss my love life with my mother. I'll be back in a few days for Christmas Eve." He stood and pushed in his chair before leaning down to kiss her on each cheek. "Thank you for having me. It's been just lovely." He gave his father a nod and Disapparated.

A moment passed. Both of the elderly Malfoys stared at their plates, their expressions stern and calculating. After thinking for a long time, Lucius finally decided to reveal his conclusion.

"She isn't a pure-blood," he guessed, his voice laced thick with anger. "That's why he's being so _elusive_." He said "elusive" rather slowly. It quite reminded his wife of the late Severus Snape.

"We don't know that, Lucius!" she gasped.

"How many single pure-bloods do you know anymore, Narcissa, let alone witches that are his age?" Lucius hissed, furiously squeezing his white kerchief. "He's refused to even _entertain_ the idea of marrying the Fawley girl. How many others are there?"

Narcissa went quiet. She knew no others.

* * *

Hermione Granger fixed her robes before Apparating to the place that had become nearly as familiar as her own home. She took a deep breath and rapped on the door. Knots twisted in her stomach as she heard footfalls coming in her direction from inside of the cottage.

The moss green door opened. "Granger."

She nodded, stepping inside. "Malfoy."

The blond wizard shut the door behind her. "I must admit, I had a rather large breakfast, so I only made sandwiches. Fortunately, I think you're used to disappointment what with Weasley and all."

"Poor taste, Draco," she scolded, hanging her jacket.

"The sandwiches? Yes, you're probably right," he chortled, smirking. "I prefer to satisfy the women I invite over."

"Wo _men?_ " Inquisition spiked her tone as she plucked off her shoes.

He still wore the same smirk. "Would that be a problem?"

Her face flushed. "No—no, of course not." She cleared her throat. "So the children arrived yesterday."

Draco gave her a calculating look. "How are they?"

She sighed, brushing past him to seat herself at his dining room table. Had she not visited as often as she did, it would have been rude. "I'm sure they're fine. They were going to go pick up some food from the market."

Draco sat across from her in his usual spot. They each had a ham sandwich in front of their place, along with the typical afternoon tea.

"Did you see Scorpius last night?" she asked, raising a brow. The tea burned her lips as she lifted the cup to her mouth. She blew on it, her eyes still fixed on him.

"And this morning. I stayed at my parents' for the evening. Believe it or not, their house-elf cooks nearly as well as I do."

"How did it go?" She took a bite of her ham sandwich, ignoring his comment about his parents' hired help. It seemed like she only ate with Draco as of late.

"Same as usual," he muttered. "I suppose it's my fault he's so distant. I was rather harsh with him after the whole Time-Turner ordeal, but he ran away for Merlin's sake."

Hermione drew in a deep breath. "I'm still sorry I held onto that damned thing."

"It wasn't your fault," he grumbled with a sigh. "Honestly, he and the Potter boy would've found some other way to get into trouble without it."

She chewed on her lip for a moment. The ham sandwich was on the plate in front of her, still mostly uneaten. "You know, that was our family's turning point too."

Draco gave her a dark look. "It couldn't have been _too_ hard on you. You moved to bloody Godric's Hollow. I don't even want to go _near_ that place."

"You remember Ron back then," she said, harshly.

"Sure. Bloody idiot as he usually is."

She shook her head. "Still _functioning_ , though. Sure, he had his days, but he was a happy drunk. Maybe we weren't—well, maybe we didn't have the perfect marriage or anything, but he was mostly tolerable. I thought we were past a lot of the squabbling that we did when we were younger. We were even going to renew our vows."

"But he started drinking more," Draco finished.

She nodded. "He went from happy and haphazard to sad, tired, and dilapidated. George asked him to take a sabbatical when he accidentally multiplied an order by ten. He got lazier and lazier and, well, he nearly burned our house down—our old house."

"What do you mean ' _nearly'_?"

She sighed. "Our old house had a fireplace. The order that Ron messed up—well, George didn't have room for the extra Bombtastic Bombs that Ron put the order in for. So, George—well, he made Ron take them home and keep them at the house. Then Ron—he—he—" She closed her eyes and exhaled. "—he left both cases beside it and—and—he passed out. I reminded him to put the fire out before he went to bed—I asked him probably a dozen times. He insisted that he would and I—I—" She began to tear up. "—I was a fool. I trusted him. I trusted him and there was an—there was an explosion."

His mouth was agape. "How did I never hear about this?"

"Harry and Ginny helped us cover it up," she mumbled. "I would've lost my seat, Draco. Everyone would've come after me if they knew—if they knew that he nearly killed our daughter."

Draco's eyes widened. "What?" His voice was cold.

She choked up a little. "The fireplace—it shared a wall with—with Rose's bedroom. The explosion just barely missed her. I-I mean it was an accident and—and she was fine! B-but it was close. Too close."

"How are you still married to that—that _imbecile?_ " he breathed. "Your daughter—your _children_ —they—"

"The Godric's Hollow home doesn't have a fireplace," Hermione defended herself. " _That's_ why we moved there."

He stared at her for a long moment, disturbed by her disregard for her children's safety. "Granger, you _have_ to get out of there. You have to get _them_ out of there. This isn't just some funny story about good old Dad indulging in the sauce. He's _dangerous_."

She gave him a pleading look, her eyes still tearful. "I don't know how, Draco. H-he and I—there's just a lot of history, you know?"

His eyes were stormy. "Well, you best find a way, because Weaselbee is going to hurt _someone_ , accident or not."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of illness came over her; she pushed her plate away, her sandwich still nearly whole. While she knew that Draco was right, she did not want to take responsibility for her husband's foul actions.

"I think I may go for a walk," she finally said. "I need the fresh air."

His face was still contorted with disgust. "You'd like company, then?"

She tilted her head, hoping to lessen the tension between the two of them. "I suppose so."


	22. Company

Each breath left a wisp of fog in the air as the pure-blood and the Muggle-born walked towards the nearby lake. On the horizon, the tall conifers quietly beckoned them.

They traveled in silence for a long while, their eyes darting towards the many elderly women that watched them through their large bay windows. Hermione transfigured her jacket into a cloak and pulled it over her head. The neighborhood was full of curious witches that had to wonder why the Minister for Magic was so frequently visiting the man in black.

The cold air nipped at Hermione's cheeks, so she pulled the hood of her cloak closer to her face. Beside her, Draco quickened his stride. His hands were buried deep in his pockets and though they had been walking for at least ten minutes, he had not looked at her—not even once.

"You're mad at me," she finally said.

He kept walking. "Mad isn't the right word for it. I'm simply disappointed in your lack of foresight, Granger, especially when it comes to your own children. I would expect more from a world leader."

If she had not known better, she would have thought he was making a joke. However, there was something acidic about his tone. "You once said I was only Minister because I'm a friend of Harry's. Surely, you couldn't have expected _much_ of me." She hoped to lighten the mood.

"I didn't lie," he pointed out, "but I would say that says more about the system than it does about you."

More time passed and silence suffocated them once more. Draco thought that he knew the brunette well, but after she revealed the fate of her previous home, he was not so sure. The woman that he knew would have removed herself from the situation, immediately. The woman that he knew was not so weak.

Finally, as they reached the head of the deer trail, Hermione whispered, "I know I have to leave him. I'm not stupid, you know."

He watched her intently. They were nearly to the lake. "I never said you were." Perhaps, he was not the type to show it, but he was vaguely relieved.

Her feet carried her faster, only so she could glare at him. "But you thought it."

"Well, you _did_ go from a Malfoy to a Weasley," he retorted with a smirk, halting in place. "Not exactly an upgrade, is it? I imagine he couldn't afford groceries without your salary."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but could not stifle a snigger.

The familiar sound of quacking ducks greeted them as the dead grass crunched beneath their toes. After making their way to the clearing, the strange duo plopped onto the ground and Hermione removed the hood of her cloak. As it usually did after being covered, her wild mane had become a tangled mess. Embarrassed, she casually tried to tame it with her fingers.

"It's cold," she murmured, ditching her efforts to fix her hair.

"Well, it _is_ December, nearly January," Draco reminded her. He turned to look at her and brushed a rogue lock from her face. "Speaking of—I still haven't finished my Christmas shopping for Scorpius. Any book recommendations?"

She grinned. "Well, I _have_ heard _The Witches of the Wizengamot_ is quite a page-turner."

"Ah, but he can borrow my signed copy," he replied with a wink.

"Fair," Hermione laughed. "Well, what kind of books does he like?"

"Long ones. Like the ones you read in school. Quite a little bookworm, that one." He raised his eyebrows. "Nothing like his old man. Got that from his mother."

"You read," Hermione pointed out, lightly whacking his arm. "Whenever I needed a potion book from the library and it wasn't in, _you_ were the one that had checked it out."

"Well, tell the whole world how much of a loser I was, why don't you?" he joked. "Now, while the ducks judge me, do you actually have any ideas to share?"

She thought for a moment. "Has he read _Most Macabre Monstrosities?_ "

Draco frowned. "What in the hell is that?"

"Think _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ but much darker. It will be hard to find—honestly, Knockturn Alley may be your best bet. I read about basilisks in that book in my second year."

"Why do you assume my son would want a 'darker' version of anything?" he asked, bemusedly. "Are we making assumptions about Slytherins again?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh come off it, Draco. You know it was a good suggestion."

"Perhaps."

She chewed on her lip. "Do you remember that book that you stole for me when we were kids?"

" _The Healer's Helpmate_ ," he said with a nod. "You were insistent on taking it. Something about a cure for nasty hangovers. But Madam Pince wouldn't let you check it out because she thought you were too drunk to brew any healing potions."

Laughing, Hermione agreed. "Yes, that's exactly right."

"Honestly, if you were anyone else, she probably would've been correct. You'd had quite a lot of firewhisky that afternoon," he pointed out. "I'm pretty sure you matched me drink for drink."

"Well, of course I was drunk! Do you think I'd let you steal a library book if I weren't?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? I seemed to be quite the influence on you. I probably could've had you putting the Imperius Curse on Filch's cat if I didn't kiss you for a few days."

Crimson in the face, Hermione shouted, "That's not true!"

"I mean, you _did_ call me a weasel when I wouldn't touch you in that spot you like so much," he noted, airily. His grey eyes were dancing with confidence. "I have a feeling you haven't been touched there in a long while."

"Draco," she breathed, her face the deepest hue of red, "that's hardly an appropriate thing to say."

"And this is hardly an appropriate place to be with a man that once touched you in that spot."

She had nothing to say.

"That's what I thought," he retorted, dryly.

A gust of wind whistled between the trees. The water was choppy and grey as winter slowly took its toll on the small English village. Ducks loudly protested the sudden chill and as the soft whisper of ruffling feathers met her ears, Hermione felt cold fingers intertwine with hers. She turned to Draco and opened her mouth to object, yet she found herself unable to do so. Instead, she looked back upon the lake and gave his hand a telling squeeze.

"I'm insane, aren't I?" The white noise was broken.

"I imagine so," Draco agreed, "but why do you ask?"

"Gee, thanks," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "But yes, I _meant_ because of everything I told you earlier?"

He shrugged. "Most women would've left him as soon as he set fire to the house, but Granger being stubborn? Who'd have thunk?"

"It's not that I'm being stubborn," she muttered. "It's that I need to be prepared for the blowback. The papers, our kids—"

"Oh, please. You know your kids need him gone just as much as you. And you wouldn't be here with _me_ if you thought you actually could fix it," he continued. "We've been over this before, Granger. In all honesty, it's getting a bit tiring."

With a swift jerk of her hand, she crossed her arms. "It's the holidays, Draco. It's not exactly the best time to ask for divorce paperwork."

"No one said you had to do it today."

A mallard dipped into the water in search of floating insects. Hermione watched him intently, grinding her teeth together. Draco had a way of pushing her when she did not want to be pushed, and with the holidays quickly approaching, she wanted to avoid any uncomfortable discussions. She could sort out her issues with Ron once Christmas was over and her children were back in school.

"I already missed my one o' clock, I imagine," she grumbled, trying to decide how she was going to explain herself to Madelyn. She stood and transfigured the cloak back into her work attire. "I ought to be going."

Draco quickly got to his feet. "You'll be stopping by tomorrow, then?"

She bit her lip. "I don't think you'll see much of me until after the holidays are over. You know, I have the kids and all…"

"Sure." His composure did not even quiver slightly.

Hermione gave him a sad smile and pressed her lips to his cheek. "Happy Christmas, Draco."

Before he could respond, she had Disapparated.  
  


* * *

  
Just as expected, Madelyn had given the Minister for Magic quite the earful when she arrived back at the office. In order to keep the peace, she mumbled a lie and put all of her energy into her workload for the rest of the day.

By the time that she Apparated home, she was absolutely beat. Draco's words had piled on for weeks, and even as her darling children greeted her, she was distant. Balancing work, her emotions, and her secretive friendship with her favorite Malfoy was beginning to take its toll on her.

"Evening, Mum," Rose welcomed her.

"Mum, we got _so much food_ at the market." Hugo was positively beaming at her. "Chicken, sausage, tomatoes, scones, potatoes, caramel tart, biscuits—"

"No bloody Cauldron Cakes, though," Ron chimed, slipping into the living room. A glass of firewhisky and pumpkin juice was in his hand. He downed the entire elixir. "You'd think Mulfree would carry 'em, wouldn't you? But she still doesn't! I'll have to go all the way to bloody Diagon Alley. I've asked her over and over to stock the damn things—"

"Sorry to hear that, dear," Hermione muttered, idly, cutting him off. "I'll make dinner in a bit."

Rose opened her mouth to protest, but her mother brushed by her and retreated to the bathroom. Hermione locked the door behind her and ran the faucet, eager to escape her responsibilities, even if only for a few moments. The water loudly trickled down the drain. She splashed some on her cheeks; it was coolly therapeutic as it touched her skin. Christmas was only days away and she had never been more stressed.

"Hermione?" Ron called through the door. He knocked. "Hermione, we've only eaten Chocolate Frogs and scones—"

"I'll be out in a minute!" she snapped.

Taken aback, Ron stepped away from the door and stumbled into the living room. Hugo and Rose looked up at him, expectantly, but he simply shrugged and collapsed onto the sofa. With a quick call of " _accio_ ", Ron had a bottle of firewhisky in his hand and he continued his drinking for the day.

Irate, Rose inhaled deeply and stormed to the bathroom door. She knocked hard. "Mum! Mum, open up!"

Hermione combed her fingers through her hair and closed her eyes. "Can it wait, darling? Just a few minutes."

"No, it can't wait!" Rose boomed. "Open the door!"

"Leave your mother alone, Rose!" Ron called from his spot on the sofa. He took a swig of Ogden's. "She's prob'ly just on her period or somethin'."

Rose scowled. "Mum! Open up!"

Hermione sighed and turned off the faucet. She unlocked the door and cracked it, looking her daughter in the eyes. "I'll come make dinner in just a moment, sweetie. Just give Mum a—"

"No," Rose growled, pushing her way inside. She pressed her back to the door and locked it behind her. "We need to talk."

It was not often that her daughter was so aggressive, at least not to her. Worry shook her to the core. "I'm listening."

"Are you, though?" Rose spat, sitting on the toilet. Her professors urged her to sit like a lady, but she never did. Instead, she spread her legs and placed her hands on her knees. "Dad puked on a Muggle family's dog today, Mum. He—puked—on—their—dog."

Hermione leaned against the sink and closed her eyes. "Rosie, pumpkin, I'm sorry. I've been trying—"

"Trying _what_ , Mum?" the teenager seethed, her fists balled. "You've barely even been here since we got home. The only food around here was eggs and Chocolate Frogs. You've left us here with—with _him_ and he's the drunkest we've ever _seen_ him."

"You can come into the office with me—"

"We're not going into the bloody office!" Rose hissed. "He drank so much he tried to pay Muggles in Galleons and wizards in pounds. He yelled at Mrs. Mulfree for nearly twenty minutes because she didn't know what Cauldron Cakes were. Then, as we were standing in line at the farmers' market, he vomited on these poor Muggles' Beagle. And you weren't here to stop _any_ of it."

"What a mess," Hermione mumbled, rubbing her temples. She looked her daughter square in the eye. "How are you so much more put-together than the rest of us?"

"Because _I'm_ the one that has to take care of Hugo when you aren't around. Somehow, Dad has been a better parent than you lately, and he can't even stand up straight," she whispered. "It all falls on me, Mum." She blinked back tears. "All of it."

"Oh, darling! Don't cry!" Hermione cooed, hurrying to hold the girl that looked so much like her and Ron. She held her tightly, letting her sob into her shoulder as she apologized over and over. "You're right. Shh. You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry."

Rose pulled away, shaking her head. She wiped her nose. "Sorry means nothing. What are you going to _do_ about it?"

Hermione drew in a deep breath. She and Draco Malfoy had discussed that very thing over and over again. When Christmas came, she would finally ask the question she had been too proud to ask. "I have a plan, figgy-pie. Don't you worry. Just a few more days and we'll get this all taken care of."  
  


* * *

  
As she turned the page of _Living with Legilimens_ , Hermione hummed lightly to herself. The overwhelming concern for her children's emotions had slightly subsided after her conversation with Rose, and for the first time in a long time, she did not depend on Draco Malfoy for guidance. Her daughter had pushed her towards the decision that she knew she needed to make.

"You seem chipper," Ron slurred. His eyes drooped, drunkenly, as his hands traveled under the covers. He trailed his fingers up her thigh. "It's been a while, huh?"

She slapped his fingers away with her free hand. "And it's going to stay that way."

He frowned, tugging at her robe. "Oh c'mon! It's been _ages!_ "

"I'm reading, Ron," she snarled, batting at his hand again.

An awkward silence filled the room, only interrupted by Hermione turning the pages of her book. Ron scratched his head. Dandruff fell from his flaming red hair and showered the duvet.

"You think you'll _ever_ want to do it with me again?" he whined. "It's been at least a year."

"Ron, quit. I'm reading."

He groaned and lay down, rolling over so he was facing away from her. He took most of the blankets with him. "Right, I'm not all blond and handsome like bloody Malfoy," he muttered.

Hermione slammed her book shut. " _What_ was that?"

"You heard me."

Enraged, Hermione swung her legs over her side of the bed and seized her book. She tucked it under her arm and grabbed her pillow and the only blanket that Ron hadn't taken. He was too crass to sleep beside, even if it meant that she had to sleep on the sofa again.

Ron sat up and threw up his hands. "Oh, c'mon. Hermione—"

"If you still are so hot and bothered, the bathroom's free," she hissed. "There's lotion in the cupboard under the sink."

"Oh, come on, Hermione. You know I'd just do that if that's what I really wanted," he spat. "What're you going to tell the kids about you sleepin' on the couch?"

"That their father was being an absolute _dunderhead_."

Before he could protest, she stormed out of their bedroom and slammed the door behind her. The walls shook from the force. It would just be another sleepless night.


	23. Everybody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is posted in its entirety on FFN. Please feel free to finish reading there if you've gotten this far and the rest of the chapters aren't up yet.

On the outside, the Burrow looked more run-down than ever. As Molly and Arthur Weasley started collecting grandchildren like some Muggles collect stamps, they added several extensions to make room for their growing family. Hosting holidays proved more and more difficult by the time that George and Angelina had their little ones, and thus, the great era of construction began.

With each pregnancy announcement, Arthur Weasley either bought more bunk beds or built another addition. The final result was confusing, zigzagging hallways, a sagging roof with mismatched shingles, and a grand total of eight chimneys. Molly had tried to transfigure the shingles a number of times, but it never lasted. After a few days, they would be back to their original, ugly state.

The elderly woman happily sang her favorite holiday tunes as she magically trimmed the tree. Arthur was counting the bunk beds to assure that there was plenty of space, as Percy was joining them for the first time in many years. He smiled to himself as he heard his wife croon.  
  


"Big and tall,  
and short and small,  
witches, boys and girls, and all,  
it's the season after fall,  
so it's time to sing a little song.

Pies and candies, sugared fig,  
potatoes, peas, and roast pig,  
a feast that makes you dance a jig,  
on Christmas Day.

Red and gold and green and blue,  
gifts wrapped up for me and you,  
family covered in ashy Floo,  
on Christmas Day."

  
Molly stopped singing for a moment to curse at the scarlet tinsel. No matter how many times she waved her wand, it just would not go where she wanted it to go. After several attempts, she gave up and hung it by hand. Pleased with her work, she started hanging garland from the banister.

"Licorice wands, Exploding Snap,  
Broomsticks, Gobstones, Zibble-Zap!

Those are things you'll unwrap,  
on Christ—"

"Molly, dearest, not to interrupt," Arthur wheezed, stepping into the living room, "but it seems we may have a problem."

"And what's that?" Molly asked with a frown. Garland hung from the crook of her arm and glitter shimmered in her grey hair. The sparkly gold ornaments were notorious for shedding their glitz.

"Well," he chuckled, nervously, "it seems that there's a bit of a leak where Dominique and Roxanne usually sleep. I did try to patch it but—well, nothing is quite holding. I've tried enchantments, Muggle putty, George's Miracle Stick. I could use a bit of help, if you don't mind. The room—it's sort of _wet_."

Molly scowled. "It's that blasted roof! You just _had_ to use the secondhand shingles!"

"It'll be no big deal, really," he assured her, "but we _do_ need to get the leak stopped or else it _may_ come into the hallway. I have an enchantment in place for now, but I'm breaking the barrier each time I move around."

She gave him a dark look. "Did you try to use the Miracle Stick _with_ the putty? That's how I stopped that leak under the sink."

Arthur kissed her square on the lips. "Genius, dear! I'll give it a try!" He scampered away, eager to try his wife's solution.

Shaking her head, Molly continued hanging the garland. Just as she hung the last of it, she heard a knock. It was quite early for visitors. Nevertheless, Molly was always happy to start the celebrations ahead of schedule. Excitedly, she rushed to the front door and swung it open. Bill and Fleur were grinning back at her, their three children at their heels.

"Mum!" Bill exclaimed, wrapping his arms around her. On his back was a knapsack. If a Muggle had seen it, they never would have believed that there were nearly a dozen presents inside of it. However, Muggles were not familiar with bottomless bags.

"Oh, Bill!" she laughed, kissing each of his cheeks. She moved to Fleur. "And Fleur. You look just beautiful."

She blushed. "Oh, zank you! I was not so sure zat rouge was my color."

"Well come in, come in," Molly said, waving them inside. She leaned down to Louis. "You know, I bet there are some Peppermint Toads on the kitchen counter." A quick wink encouraged him to run off to retrieve the special treat.

"Are we the first ones here?" Bill had a quizzical expression on his face. He took off his knapsack unloaded the gifts under the tree. "Where's Dad? I hear swearing but I don't see him?"

The look that Molly gave him told him that he shouldn't have asked. "Your father is trying to patch up a hole in the roof just down the hall. If you'd be a dear and go help him?"

Bill nodded and followed the slew of curse words. Molly turned to Fleur and gave her a small smile. The two of them had never been close, but over the years, they'd bettered their relationship.

"So, how have you been?" Molly asked, awkwardly, sitting down in one of the patch-riddled living room chairs.

"Good," Fleur replied, smoothing her red skirt as she sat on the sofa. "I wasn't sure about zee 'orses but I must say it was much better than being covered in Floo powder." She patted two spots beside her. "Dominique, Victoire, come zit by your _mère_."

Her two blonde daughters sat on either side of her, both looking rather bored. Victoire had graduated from Hogwarts a few years prior and felt she was a bit old to be forced into joining the family for Christmas get-togethers. Dominique was in her final year at Hogwarts and felt quite similarly.

"Can I interest anyone in a cup of tea?" Molly inquired.

Fleur shook her head. "No, zank you."

Molly nodded, silently cursing her daughter-in-law for forcing her to stay in the uncomfortable situation. "Dominique, how has school been? N.E.W.T. year is a tough one, yes?"

"School's boring," Dominique muttered.

"Well, you'll be done with it soon enough," Molly reassured her, patting her knee. She looked from Dominique to Fleur to Victoire. "I'm not sure when the rest of the family will be in, but I've told everyone dinner will be at seven. Are you hungry? Do you need anything now?"

"We ate before we left za 'ouse."

Molly drew in a deep breath. "Yes, of course. Well, er—make yourselves at home. I do have a few more things to take care of for this evening."

"We can help! Any-zing zat you need." Fleur offered. Her eyes flashed fury as she turned her attention to her spoiled children. "Dominique, Victoire—help your _grand-mère_!"

The two girls began to argue, but Fleur hushed them. Molly closed her eyes. Of all the family that could have shown up early, it _had_ to be Bill, Fleur, and their grumpy girls.  
  


* * *

  
Ginny Weasley had spent half the day rounding up her three children and forcing them into their holiday outfits. Whenever she finished dressing one, it seemed like another one of them had peeled off the itchy sweater that she demanded they wore. Her mother's heart would be broken if they did not wear their monogrammed turtlenecks.

"Okay, now before any of you little goblins takes your sweater off again, let's pile into the fireplace," Ginny announced. Lily reached into her pockets, clearly looking for something that would cause trouble. When she pulled out a rather fat toad, Ginny's eyes widened. "Lily—no! Put Russell back in his terrarium!"

Lily grumbled and scurried off. After a few moments, she returned and Ginny took a deep breath. The tired mother looked at all three of her children, a hand on her hip.

"Are there going to be licorice wands?" Lily asked. "Last year, Grandmummy had licorice wands."

"I don't know, Lily," Ginny replied, exasperated. "Okay. Everyone is dressed. Everyone—oh bloody hell! I forgot the gifts!"

"Calm down," Harry said, stepping into the living room. A wagon full of vibrant presents trailed behind him. Fortunately, buying gifts for their large family had become much easier since everyone agreed to only buy for the children. Still, there were many of them, meaning that it was always a feat to carry all of the gifts unless they used shrinking charms. Not everything shrunk as well as the Potters would have liked, sadly. "I've got all of them right here."

Ginny let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, okay. Albus, take a few… Keep a hand open for the Floo—oh, oh! Don't drop them!"

Albus struggled to carry the gifts that his father handed to him, but managed to balance them after a few tries. His older brother took several, and his younger sister only took two of the smallest ones. The three of them shifted their weight, unsteadily, as they waited for their mother to give them the Floo powder.

"Perfect, perfect." Ginny smiled. "Okay, Lily first—up, up! Careful, don't hit your head!"

Lily stepped into the fireplace and blinked rapidly. She opened her one free hand and her mother dropped a handful of Floo powder into it. Lily sprinkled the powder and shouted, "The Burrow!"

James and Albus followed suit. Finally, Harry and Ginny took the remaining presents and Apparated to the front door.

"I hope the kids made it okay," Ginny hissed, knocking. "Albus always sounds like he has Gobstones in his mouth lately."

"I'm sure he's fine," Harry whispered back. "We'll see in just a moment, won't we?"

Mere seconds passed before Molly Weasley opened the front door, a loving smile on her face. Simply beaming, she pulled her daughter and son-in-law close to her for a warm hug. It was quite awkward, considering they both had armfuls of glittering gifts. "Harry! Ginny! You could have Apparated inside you know. It's just _freezing_ out there! Oh, let me take care of those." Molly waved her wand and their many, many presents were magically pulled from their grasp before landing softly under the tree.

"Did Albus get here okay?" Ginny asked, concernedly, stepping inside of the house.

"Oh, yes, yes. All three of them are here," Mrs. Weasley chuckled. She leaned in for another hug, but this time whispered in Ginny's ear. "Thank Merlin you came. I've been alone with Fleur and her awful girls for the past _two hours_."

Ginny pulled away, a humored grin on her face. She was well aware of the fact that her mother did not get along well with Fleur, but the two women were able to set aside their differences. The relationship only worsened when Victoire and Dominique grew older and turned into the spoiled brats that the entire family knew them to be.

"Ah, Ginny!" Fleur squealed as Ginny walked into the living room. She threw her arms around Ginny's neck. "And 'arry!" She quickly moved to Harry and kissed both of his cheeks. " _Joyeux Noël, joyeux Noël!_ "

"Yes, yes. Happy Christmas Eve," Ginny muttered. She saw that her children were chattering with Louis by the tree, but as she looked around the room, she did not see her father or her brother. "Mum, where are Dad and Bill?"

Molly exhaled. "Well, they're working on a leak in one of the bedrooms. I _told_ your father not to use those shingles he found in the Muggle dump but he just had to—"

Before she could finish her thought, there was a rumbling in the fireplace. In a flash of green fire, Percy emerged from it. The lower half of his dress robes were covered in Floo powder. The balding man greeted everyone and turned around to watch as his children climbed out of the fireplace behind him. Lastly, his wife, Audrey followed suit. The rumbling stopped.

"Hello, everyone," Audrey said, anxiously. "Happy Christmas Eve."

"Happy Christmas Eve, Audrey, dear," Molly said, wrapping her arm around her. "Come on in and have a sit-down."

"Sorry we're late," Percy muttered, looking around the room. A bulging sack was slung over his shoulder. "Lucy couldn't find her—"

"Oh, nonsense! You're early," Molly chuckled. "We're still waiting on Charlie, Ron and Hermione, George and Angelina, and the kids, of course. Please, please, sit down! Roast pig will take a few hands to heat up fully but everything else can be ready in seconds. I've already prepared the vegetables, put together all sorts of fillings, kneaded the dough…"

Percy did not listen to his mother's ramblings about the great Christmas Eve feast. Instead, he leaned in and asked, "Speaking of Ron, how _is_ he? I don't exactly want my children around if he's going to be—well, the _Prophet_ painted a pretty nasty picture."

Molly waved him away. "Oh, Percy, don't worry about your brother. Let's not ruin the holidays."

Percy sighed and sat on the edge of an armchair that Audrey had claimed, the sack still dragging his narrow shoulder down. He opened his mouth to speak, but was rudely interrupted by a clamor coming from down the hall. He frowned. "What was that?"

Molly scowled. "Harry, dear, could you go help Bill and Arthur?"

Harry quietly obeyed, trying to pretend that he didn't have the same concerns that Percy did.  
  


* * *

  
It was nearly seven o' clock and Ron Weasley was snoring loudly on the sofa. His two children sat on the floor, inches away from him, impatiently prodding at him with their wands. He wore his signature scent of body odor and beer, causing his daughter's nose to crinkle.

"No wand-pointing!" Hermione Granger roared, snatching the wands from her two children. "These are not toys!"

Rose rolled her eyes. "We _know_ they're not toys."

"When are we going to Grandmum and Granddad's?" Hugo chirped. "It's almost seven!"

"And Dad hasn't even put on trousers yet," Rose added, crossing her arms.

Hermione drew in a deep breath and looked at her husband's stained boxer shorts. "Oh, I must've lost track of time. I'll wake him up. Make sure you two have everything—and use the bathroom before we leave! We don't need a repeat of last year." She raised her brows at her son.

"That wasn't my fault!" he scowled. "Uncle George was in there for nearly two hours!"

"Which is _exactly_ why you ought to go now," Hermione pointed out, ruffling his hair. "Go on, then!"

Hugo blew a frustrated gust of air from his mouth, but stood up and complied, nonetheless. The sound of urine splashing into the toilet could be heard from afar.

"Mum, I promise I won't pee on Grandmum's porch," Rose said, sarcastically.

"I know you won't," Hermione hissed. "Go double-check you have everything. I have to have a _word_ with your father."

Knowing quite well what her mother meant, Rose rolled her eyes and ran upstairs.

Hermione tucked her children's wands into her pocket and approached her husband. She leaned down as close to his ear as possible and shouted, "RONALD WEASLEY!"

He jumped a little. "Bloody hell, Hermione. What's goin' on?"

"We need to be at dinner at your parents' in fifteen minutes and you haven't even put on trousers. _That's_ what's going on," she hissed. "Go get changed."

Ron groaned and sat up, cradling his head. "Oi! I definitely need a drink before—"

Hermione held up a single finger. " _One_ shot, and only so you aren't an absolute _arse_ at your parents' house. And no more after that!"

Ron nodded and stood, pushing past her and going to the kitchen. "I won't act an arse."

Hermione shook her head. "No, no, no. _I'll_ pour it. _You_ go get dressed."

Mumbling under his breath, Ron followed her directions in the same way that both of her children did. Rose and Hugo had met her in the living room not long after she sent them away. She looked them both up and down and gave them a nod of approval.

"Is Dad nearly done?" Rose asked, her arms crossed. "We're going to be _late_."

Hermione peered at the clock. "Ron!"

He emerged from the bedroom. Although he wore trousers, his greasy hair and violet semicircles still made him look quite disheveled. Hermione closed her eyes, asking herself what else she expected. On the coffee table was the shot that she had poured for him, which she gestured as soon as he walked into the room.

"Thanks, honey," he murmured before downing the shot. " _Ahh!_ "

"Alright, put it down," Hermione instructed. "Rose, Hugo, grab a few gifts and let's get going!"

The children seized several gifts from the armchair, all of which Hermione had been smart enough to shrink. Unlike Harry and Ginny, she always checked for the "DO NOT ENCHANT" warnings on labels. Once their younglings had collected the presents, Ron and Hermione grabbed their free hands. With one final nod to one another, they Apparated to the Burrow.

" _There_ they are!" Molly shrieked as soon as they appeared in the living room. She ran to Hermione and kissed both her cheeks. When she turned to her son, her face fell. "Oh, Ronald." She gave him a sad hug and looked around the room. "Well, I suppose we can eat now."

"We could've eaten ten minutes ago if Ron wasn't late," George pointed out. "Had a few drinky-drinks, did we, Ickle Ronniekins?"

"George!" Molly scolded. She turned to Ron and smiled. "No worries about being late, dearie. Just in time, really. Table is all set. Food is all ready. Now let's have a lovely Christmas Eve dinner."

After ordering the children to put the gifts under the tree, Hermione glanced around the room. All of her husband's relatives were staring at the two of them. Some of them looked concerned, some of them looked annoyed, but most of all, everyone looked notably curious.

Mumbling to each other in separate conversations, the entire family shuffled into the dining room. It was one of the many extensions that Arthur had added, and naturally, the ceiling was several inches shorter than it was throughout the rest of the house. Ron ducked and sat down at the table, his eyes fixed on the grand feast before him. The roast pig seemed to have him in a trance. In fact, he was so distracted that he did not even notice the many questioning stares.

"Happy Christmas Eve, everybody," Arthur said, a bittersweet smile on his face. The feet of his chair squealed against the floor as he pulled himself towards the table. He rubbed his hands together. "Well, I'm happy to announce that Bill, Harry, Charlie, George, and myself were able to stop the little snow problem that we had in Dominique and Roxanne's room. It may have taken five of us, but I'm pleased to say that nothing is damp anymore, so you girls should have a good night's sleep. I'm even _more_ pleased to see that my entire family is here in this place that Molly and myself call home."

Molly smiled and reached over to give his hand a squeeze. "That's lovely, dear."

"Hmm, yes, well, this roast pig is calling my name so I think I ought to shut my ruddy mouth so we can get to eating!"

The entire family, sans Dominique and Victoire, piled food onto their plates. Fleur took only the smallest of portions, quietly reminding everyone that she was "watching" her "figure" and small portions "are zee French way". Ginny rolled her eyes and stuffed her mouth full of buttered mashed potatoes as soon as the statement rolled off the part-Veela's tongue.

"So, Minister, I was hoping we could speak about funding for the Department of Magical Transportation," Percy said, coolly. "I have a formal proposal—"

"No, no, no!" Molly Weasley boomed, her hands gripped tightly around a fork and knife. She looked rather menacing as she slammed her weaponized fists against the table. "We will _not_ talk about work at this dinner table. It's Christmas Eve."

George took a long drink of Molly's famous mulled apple cider. "You know, Mum, you're getting a bit old to be havin' outbursts like that. You're gonna have a stroke."

Her usually kind eyes were fiery as she turned to her jokester of a son. He simply held up his hands in surrender before chasing a rotund pea around his plate. Fortunately for George, his mother's attention was not on him for long. While she had noticed that Dominique and Victoire had not loaded their plates right away, she thought they were simply waiting for the commotion to slow down. To her surprise, their plates were still clean.

"Dominique, you aren't eating," Molly noted with a frown.

"Well, there isn't really anything here I can have on my diet." She leaned back into her chair, crossing her arms. "The salad is absolutely drenched in _dressing_." The word "dressing" seemed to make her sick.

"And the peas are smothered in butter," Victoire added.

Molly frowned. "I thought the French liked butter."

"We do," Fleur cut in, glaring at her two daughters. "My zilly daughters are following a Muggle diet—an American one."

"Well it's working," Dominique chimed, running her hands tautly down her middle. "I've already gone down an entire robe size."

"It will make you ill!" Fleur argued.

Dominique opened her mouth to argue, but Bill gave her a look of warning. Suddenly, she was spooning a small serving of peas onto her plate, her gaze fixed on the tiny, green vegetables.

"The pork is lovely, Mrs. Weasley," Harry quipped, prim and proper as usual.

"Why thank you, Harry!"

"Yes, it's quite delicious," Hermione added. "Did you do something a bit different this year?"

"A little more rosemary," Molly explained a sparkle in her eye. "I should've trusted you would be the only one to notice. Always such an observant girl."

"Observant and _fat_ ," Victoire muttered. Only her sister, who responded with a snicker, had heard her.

At the furthest end of the table, all of the less bratty children were prodding Charlie about his encounters with dragons. He responded, bemusedly, gently reminding them that he could only answer one question at a time. The children always were eager to hear of his grand adventures, so every year, they strategically placed themselves near him.

"Pass uh salt," Ron garbled, his mouth full of mashed potatoes and gravy.

"What do we say, Ickle Ronniekins?" George asked, mocking him with the salt shaker. Ron reached for it, but George quickly reached for his wand with his free hand and cast a levitation charm. " _Tut, tut!_ You didn't say the magic word!"

"Dammit, George! Just give me the bloody salt!" Ron's voice was intense with resentment.

The children quit babbling at their favorite uncle. Every pair of eyes was transfixed on Ron as his face paled to a rather unattractive shade of grey.

Hermione lightly touched his shoulder. "Ron, calm down," she whispered.

"Well, he's actin' a git!" Ron shouted, pointing at George with his fork.

"I was just messin' with you," George chortled, lowering the salt. It landed in front of his younger brother's place at the table. "See? All yours."

Ron seized it, looking around the entire table. Stares and open mouths reminded him that he had stirred quite a scene, but he didn't care. Instead, he angrily salted his potatoes and corn until he had undoubtedly salted it all too much.

The inevitable awkward silence weighed heavily on all twenty-six people at the Weasley table. Eyes flitted towards Ron every few seconds.

Ron flared his nostrils. "Mum, where's the eggnog?"

Hermione's heart lurched. She nudged her husband, physically reminding him of their agreement before they left the house.

"I didn't think we needed it with dinner tonight," Molly answered, coldly. "It can wait 'til tomorrow."

"Is it just in the ice box then?" he asked, getting to his feet. He pushed his chair in, only to be met with several dirty looks.

"Sit _down_ , Ron," Hermione hissed, embarrassed by her husband's antics.

"Yes, listen to Hermione, Ronald," Arthur urged. "We'll all enjoy some tomorrow. There's plenty of mulled cider for now."

Gritting his teeth, Ron sat back down. The anger in his gaze could have killed. From the other end of the table, Rose was rubbing her temples.

"I don't think you ought to be drinking anyway, bud," Bill said. He took a sip of his cider and set the goblet back onto the table.

"Who told you that? Your _wife?_ " Ron growled.

"You leave her out of it," Bill cautioned.

"Boys—" Molly tried to intervene.

"You tell her to leave herself out of it! She's the one that had so much to say to the _Daily_ bloody _Prophet!_ "

"I was only trying to help!" Fleur shouted, tears in her eyes.

"I don't need help!" Ron barked. "Why would you think I needed your help?"

"Oh, you know why, you dungbrain," George chided. "You're a right drunk just like Uncle Bilius!"

"Well, now you just sound like my wife," Ron mumbled.

"And you ought to listen to her!" Bill exclaimed.

"Bill's right. She really is the brains of your little operation," George added, pointing at Bill with his spoon, red Jell-O jiggling upon it. He popped the spoon into his mouth and continued with his mouth full. "If you had even a single working brain cell you'd do whatever she said."

"Can we not do this in front of the children?" Ginny remonstrated.

"Thank you, Ginny," Hermione said, her voice small.

"Yes, thank you, Ginny. Not in front of the children," Molly agreed. "There's plenty of time for this conversation once they're in bed."

"Or Bill and George could mind their own ruddy business," Ron mumbled, stabbing a button mushroom.

"Or you could stop actin' an arse," George snapped back.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. The previous Christmas Eve had been a nightmare, but as Ron and his brothers squabbled at the table, that day was beginning to look like a holiday in Tuscany.

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," Percy muttered. He scraped his fork against his teeth.

"Shut up, Percy," Ron growled. "At least I didn't abandon the family."

" _Ronald_ ," Molly warned.

"But he—"

"I don't care! You will not act like this at _my_ dinner table!" Molly interjected. She shot her gaze to Bill and George. "So stop it, _all_ of you."

Nobody spoke for a long while. The white noise of scraping silverware and loud chewing filled the silence, interrupted only by the occasional quip from the children. Presents were at the forefront of their minds, while the quarrel was at the forefront of everyone else's.

"Well, I suppose I'm quite full." Arthur patted his belly and looked around the table. Three hours of feasting had done him in. "I think I'll get ready to turn in."

"Yes, us too," Ginny said, lightly touching Harry's back. "Do you need help with anything, Mum?"

"No, I'll help," Hermione volunteered, straightening her dress. "You lot go on to bed."

"Are you sure you two don't need anything?" Angelina offered. "Happy to help."

"That's quite sweet of you, Angelina, dear," Molly cooed, brushing against her second favorite daughter-in-law's hand, "but Hermione and myself will be able to take care of it. You get some rest."

The sound of scooting chairs signaled the end of the discomfited evening. Most everyone shuffled to their respective rooms, some of them stopping to line up by the only bathroom. As Hermione and Molly waved their wands to put away leftovers, Hugo leaned against the table.

"Mum, you can bunk with me and Fred."

Molly frowned. "Your mummy and daddy have a room, figgy-cakes."

"But they don't like to sleep together."

Molly gave Hermione a concerned glance. Hermione drew in a deep breath and nodded. "We've been—well, the drinking and all…"

Molly cleared the dishes with a last swoop of her wand. "We ought to have a talk about things, then—once everyone is in bed." She side-eyed Hugo, hoping that he did not catch her meaning.

"I think it would be for the best."

Molly solemnly replied, "I'll put on some tea."  
  


* * *

  
Angelina Weasley tossed and turned. Hours had passed since the disastrous dinner, yet still, she had not gotten a lick of sleep. She blamed the bed. It was lumpy and adorned in the itchiest blankets that she had ever felt. Beside her, her husband lay awake, his eyes wide.

"I pay him to sit at home and act like a git," he complained. "No wonder he hasn't gotten anything done. Last year he was bad but this year—I mean, did you see the color of his face?"

"Georgie, as fascinated as I am by your brother's alcoholism, I'd really like some sleep."

"Good luck," he snorted. "I've already cast every enchantment I can think of to make these damn blankets less scratchy."

She groaned and buried her face into his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head. The lanky ginger was as deeply in love with her as he had been on their wedding day. Suddenly, she furrowed her brow. "Do you hear that?"

George frowned and listened carefully. He heard cursing. "Sounds like someone wanderin' about. Not Mum or Dad. I heard both of 'em snorin' when I went to the bathroom earlier."

"One of the kids?" she hissed. "Damn it, where are your Extendable Ears when we need them?"

"Not one of the kids," George replied, quietly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He went to the door and pressed his ear against it. "Well, maybe. Footsteps seem a bit heavy, though. Whoever it is, they're fishin' through the cupboards and they didn't think to use a muffling charm."

"Apparently we aren't the only ones that can't sleep in this bloody madhouse," Angelina muttered. "Probably someone just getting some water."

"Or my idiot nieces finally realizing they can't live off water and six peas."

Angelina sniggered. "Imagine what they'd say if they heard you say their footsteps were heavy."

George pressed a finger to his lips and cracked the door. Without the barrier muffling the sound, he could clearly hear the swearing voice.

"…bloody bitch. I'll show her," Ron was swearing. "Damn it! Blasted eggnog…"

"Who is it?" Angelina hissed.

George shook his head and put his finger to his lips again.

"…leaving my children with my bloody mother…" he continued. "Who does she think she is? Going behind my back and telling my mother I shouldn't be around our kids…the nerve she has…"

Closing the door quietly behind him, George grimaced. He tiptoed to the bed and climbed in beside his wife.

"Sounds like Hermione's putting the hammer down."

"She was yelling at him?" Angelina asked, tilting her head.

George shook his head. "Oh, no. Not that I heard anyway. Sounds like he's gettin' into the 'nog because she's leavin' the kids with Mum and Dad. Think he's just talkin' to himself."

Angelina covered her mouth. "Leaving them here? Summers too? Or just for the holiday?"

George shrugged. "Dunno. Sounds like he's pretty put out by it though. Suppose we ought to get ready for the show tomorrow."

Angelina groaned. "I _told_ you we should've gone to my parents'."

George laughed. "And miss this? Absolutely not!"

With a roll of her eyes, Angelina turned over. As she tried to get comfortable in the lumpy, itchy bed, she could not help but worry about her sister-in-law. She could not imagine what she would do if George acted the way that Ron did.


	24. Holiday

Ronald Weasley was in a foul mood as soon as he woke up. The unwelcome din of screaming children broke his peaceful, once-drunken slumber almost as quickly as it came. At first, he was confused, wondering why he was in his parents' house. After he fought off the early morning grogginess, he remembered that it was Christmas Day.

He groaned and cradled his pounding head in his hands. A drink would solve the problem, but he had a feeling that nobody was going to let him drink anything once they discovered that the eggnog was already gone. To his annoyance, his wife was not in the room. As he pulled on the same trousers and sweater that he had worn the day before, he recollected the previous evening's events.

_"So you're just gonna leave 'em with my mum?" he had asked, his brows knit together._

_Hermione slowly nodded. "It's for the best, Ron. It's not something I_ want _to do, but it's for them. You have to admit, our home isn't the best place for kids—not right now, at least."_

_"But you just went behind my back and did it!" he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. She gulped as he towered over her. "I should have some sort of say, Hermione! They're my bloody kids too!"_

_She heard stirring in the room next to them. Charlie slept there. Hoping not to disturb him, she cast an Imperturbable Charm. "Your mum agreed that it's for the best, Ron. Please try to understand that it's nothing against you—"_

_"Oh, come off it! It's all 'cause I have a drink or two here or there. You said as much!" He was pacing back and forth._

_"You know you drink more than that," she rebutted, softly._

_"You don't get to do this, Hermione," he sputtered, still storming in a circle. "You act like you're so perfect but you're barely even bloody home! 'S'not like you're bein' much of a bloody mother."_

_Hermione massaged her forehead. "Ron, I'm done talking about this. It's done, okay?"_

_"Well, I'm not done!"_

_She rolled her eyes and lay on her pillow. Under her breath, she grumbled, "I knew you'd act this way."_

Ron wondered what she expected when she informed him of her decision. The children were fine, in his eyes. They had food, they had water, and most of all, they were at home with their _parents_. He and Hermione often had disagreements, but he never thought she would stoop so low. For nearly a month he suspected that she had been keeping something from him, and this abrupt choice of hers only made him more suspicious.

The middle-aged man had saved some of his wrath for the other woman that betrayed him. Before the day was out, he planned on having a heated conversation with his mother. If he had any say, his children would be going home with him, whether she and Hermione liked it or not. Their approval didn't matter to him anymore.

He staggered down the stairs and into the living room. While he planned on dipping into the restroom, he noticed that the door was closed as he made his way down the hallway. Groaning, he leaned against the wall and waited.

"Good morning, Ron. Happy Christmas!" Arthur greeted him. His lap was full of wrappers that had undoubtedly been disposed of by one of his many grandchildren. "Your mother is preparing some breakfast. Should be ready soon, I'd suspect."

The mention of food reminded Ron how hungover he was. Greasy bacon, fatty sausage, hardy beans, and starchy waffles sounded like a dream come true. Apparently, he wasn't the only one that was preoccupied by the thought of food. All of the children were comparing the candies and small baubles that they got gotten in their stockings, a tradition that Hermione had introduced to the Weasleys after Rose was born. Ron was a bit jealous. His nieces and nephews had clearly already eaten their morning sweets, based on the chocolate smudges around Lily and Fred's mouths.

"Urgh! Rotten fish!" Molly II exclaimed after popping a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean in her mouth. "What's with all the seafood? The last one was prawn!"

"You've been unlucky with those," James chortled. "Albus too. He got a soap flavored one."

"Rotten fish and prawn sound worse." Albus shuddered.

"I got marshmallow," Lucy bragged. She popped another in her mouth. "Ooh! This one is cherry!"

While the children continued to experiment with the mystery candies, creaking stairs could be heard. It did not take long for Charlie to saunter into the room and stretch. "Morning, Dad, Ron. Happy Christmas." He frowned. "Where'd everyone go?"

"The dining room," Arthur replied, airily. "Waiting on breakfast, I imagine."

"Can I sit by you, Uncle Charlie?" Lily asked, clawing at the foil of a Zibble-Zap bar. The hard-to-find chocolate bars had a particularly peculiar side effect. Whoever ate them would zap anyone that they touched. They were only available near Christmas and Honeydukes rarely carried more than two hundred. Each year, witches and wizards lined up by the dozens to buy their fair share. "You can share my Zibble-Zap."

"Thanks for the offer, but I need to lay off the sweets," Charlie said, patting his flat stomach. "Can't tame dragons with a tummy-ache, can I?"

"Oi, are you saying I have to give up sweets to work with dragons?" James asked, looking rather annoyed.

"When you get to be my age, you ought to give up sweets no matter what," Charlie chided. He hooked a finger into his mouth and tapped a rather diseased-looking molar. "Bad for the teeth."

"Eww!" Lily wailed, scrunching her nose.

Ron couldn't keep up with the children as they yammered back and forth with his brother. He thought it strange that Rose was nowhere to be found, but shrugged it off when he realized that Dominique and Victoire were gone too. The three girls likely wanted to speak with the adults instead. They were inarguably old enough.

By the time that Ron heard the bathroom door open, he was holding his thighs together in an attempt to slow his need to relieve himself. The only positive side effect of his painfully full bladder was that he nearly forgot about his headache. He stepped into the hallway and hurried towards it before anyone else tried. George smirked at him in passing and Ron flashed him a glare.

"Blimey, George! What the hell did you _do_ in there?" he exclaimed, entering the room. He plugged his nose.

"Just for you, little brother!" George called back.

Ron lifted the lid and began to go. A disgusted expression was on his face as he clearly had to let go of his nose. Relief overwhelmed him.

Unfortunately, it was the most comfortable that he would be all day.

* * *

Arthur Weasley loved nothing more than he loved his grandkids. As he aged and his children visited him less and less, the holidays became the only time of year that he was able to see many of them. He cherished each and every Christmas, which was exactly why he was so upset when the traditional breakfast took a turn for the worst.

Molly had been sneaking leers at her youngest son since he sat down at the dining room table, but not everyone seemed to notice. Hoping to avoid the standoff between the two of them, Arthur cut into his waffles and made the usual Christmas morning small talk with the rest of the family.

"Lumpy, you say?" he noted, his eyes fixed on Angelina. "I had no idea. I'll have to see if we can't get a replacement."

Angelina thanked him, but she was watching Ron from the corner of her eye. She had clearly noticed the tension between him and Molly, just like Arthur had.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Delicious breakfast, dear." He lovingly placed a hand on Molly's shoulder. "Better than last year's, if I may say so."

Without drawing her gaze away from her son, she replied, "Thank you, Arthur. I added more sugar to the waffle batter."

Ron stabbed a sausage. His blue eyes were bloodshot and glazed over. "The sausage is a bit burnt."

Molly inhaled sharply and folded her kerchief into her lap. "Yes, well, my mind was on other things this morning after I opened the ice box."

Angelina and George exchanged knowing glances, which confused Arthur. He had no idea what his wife was talking about, but it was obvious that something had happened with Ron and the ice box. As he racked his brain, he realized that there were only two likely explanations: all of the eggnog was gone or he ate most of the leftovers from the previous night's dinner. Either would be sure to boil Molly's blood, as it was a tradition for the entire family to finish Christmas Eve leftovers for lunch on Christmas Day. His wife was an adept witch in the kitchen, but cooking three feasts for twenty-six people in a day was far too much even for her. She depended on those leftovers.

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have been in the ice box if you and my lovely wife hadn't been goin' behind my back talkin' about me." Ron's tone was acidic.

"Now, Ronald, it's a holiday. Let's not ruin it for everyone—" Arthur was quickly stopped midsentence.

"If you're so worried about people ruinin' holidays, you ought to speak with your wife." he replied, darkly. "Or mine! Take your pick."

"Ronald, that's _enough_ ," Hermione intervened. "Just eat your breakfast. We can discuss this all tomorrow."

"Well, _I'd_ like to discuss it now."

A smirking George leaned back in his chair and raised his brows, chewing loudly on a piece of bacon. He turned to his wife, giving her a quiet signal to pay attention. In fact, the argument fascinated him so much that he angled his head so his good ear was closer to the conversation.

"Ronald, there are _children_ at this table," Molly reminded him, her voice cold. "Including _yours_ , if I might remind you."

"Yes, Ronniekins, can't you behave in front of the children?" George mocked. "My dear Roxanne and Fred's virgin ears shouldn't have to listen to you three squabbling."

"Shut up, George," Ron growled. "Stupid git."

"Hey, maybe my ears haven't gotten as much action as good old Dad's but they sure aren't virgins," Roxanne chimed.

Angelina snorted. Their daughter had certainly taken after her father, and while she was often quiet around her aunts and uncles, her occasional quips were well worth the wait.

"That's not appropriate," Percy pointed out.

Victoire hissed something into Dominique's ear. Dominique giggled and their mother gave them a cautionary look. Fleur had much better hearing than Arthur, because he was sitting closer to the girls and he had not at all heard what they said.

Percy shook his head. "At least _someone_ knows how to reprimand their children for being inappropriate."

"Oi, let's remember who the bad parent here is. It's Ron," George said with a smirk.

"So everyone thinks this is funny, then?" Ron complained.

"Absolutely," George answered. "Ronniekins ruinin' Christmas again. Nothing funnier."

"George, stop it," Molly warned, pointing her fork at him.

Arthur continued eating his waffle. Weasley holidays were oftentimes fueled by arguments, but never had they crippled everyone's ability to have a good time. That changed after his son's drinking took a turn for the worse. He and Molly had hoped for the best that year, yet his concerns grew greater after he read the many _Daily Prophet_ articles featuring Ron's public intoxication. He only hoped that the reporters were taking everything out of context like they usually did. Unfortunately, it seemed like they were spot on.

"Fine, fine," George gave in. "Just for the record, the sausage wasn't burnt at all."

"He's right. It wasn't, Mum," Bill concurred.

"Was too," Ron grumbled.

"Shut up, Ron," snapped Ginny. "Nobody wants you hear you whine."

" _You_ don't know what she and Hermione talked about last night," he rebutted, angrily cutting into his waffle. "Go on, ask them."

"It isn't my business," Ginny retorted. She gestured everyone at the table. "It's not anyone else's either."

"Thank you, Ginny." Molly avoided her son's gaze.

"I'm going to go eat in the kitchen," Ron mumbled, getting to his feet. He stabbed another waffle and put it on his plate before piling his silverware on top of it.

"Oh, don't be such a baby!" Ginny spat, nearly slamming her goblet of pumpkin juice onto the table. "Can't you act like an adult for _one day_ , Ronald?"

"Blimey, Ginny. Maybe I can act like an adult if you stop bein' a bitch for thirty seconds."

"Oh, Merlin," Percy muttered, clapping a hand to his face in frustration.

"Hey, that's my wife!" Harry yelled, getting to his feet.

"Ron, that was entirely uncalled for," Hermione breathed. She looked at the children at the other end of the table. They were all gaping at her husband. As they chewed on their berry-laden waffles, she sunk into her chair.

"Well, Hermione, I'm apparently not good enough to be around even my own kids, so you should expect this kind of thing."

Arthur was speechless. He peered at his wife, who was positively seething. He did not know what she and Hermione had discussed the night before, but nothing could excuse his son's behavior.

"What is he talking about, Mum?" Hugo asked, confusedly.

Hermione opened her mouth, yet no words came out. Everyone at the table was staring at her, expectantly, especially Hugo and Rose.

"Go on, then. Tell them." Ron pressed, plucking a slab of bacon off his plate. He put it in his mouth, chewing each bite until he had eaten the entire piece.

Heat filled her face, even though the room was rather cold. Fanning herself, she managed to say, "Hugo, Rose, we'll talk about this later."

"Well, if you won't tell them, I will," Ron went on.

"Ronald—" Molly warned.

"Ron, don't—" Hermione said at the same time.

"Your mother and your grandmother—" He was briefly interrupted by more interjections before continuing. "—decided you ought to finish winter break here."

"Ron—" Hermione started.

The rest of the family could not tear their eyes away. Rose and Hugo looked at one another, but neither of them seemed upset. Instead, they surprised everyone.

"Really?" Rose asked. "That sounds brilliant!"

"Grandmum, can we fly in the backyard?" Hugo asked, excitedly. He was never allowed to fly at home because his father never agreed to supervise him while his mother was working.

"Of course," Molly replied, relieved that they were okay with it. "Your uncles' old broomsticks are up in the attic somewhere. Keep it low, though. And no Quaffle! Too many Muggles..."

"Mum, can _we_ finish Christmas break here?" Lily asked.

"Oh, that'd be wicked!" Hugo exclaimed.

Ron scowled. "My own children." He stormed out of the dining room, earning several concerned glances from the adults. The children, however, were still prattling away about how much better holidays would be if they were able to spend the entire two weeks at their grandparents'.

Molly exhaled. "How is everyone's breakfast?"

"Wonderful," Charlie replied.

"Yes, it's brilliant," Audrey added.

The rest of the meal was just as silent as Christmas Eve dinner had been. While Arthur looked forward to spending more time with his two grandchildren, he silently cursed his wife and his daughter-in-law for discussing it on Christmas Eve. If they hadn't, Christmas morning may have been better for everyone.

* * *

After an awkward breakfast, Rose was ecstatic to open gifts with her brother and her cousins. No matter what her father said, he could not ruin presents.

"Okay, youngest to eldest," Molly reminded the children of the rule. "Hugo. You open one, and then we'll keep it moving in a circle." She gave him a nod, encouraging him to begin.

Hugo was surrounded by a stack of gifts, just like his sister and the rest of his cousins. Glittering green wrapping paper invited him to tear into the present from his favorite uncle, Charlie. Beaming, he tugged at the ribbon and tossed it on the floor before ripping into the paper.

"Whoa! A real Dilby Dragon! A Norwegian Ridgeback!" he trumpeted. Dilby Dragons were all the rage, as they blew real smoke from their nostrils and an enchantment made them appear to breathe fire. Unlike model dragons that were particularly known for their chestnut-roasting abilities, Dilby Dragons were safe for children. "Thank you, Uncle Charlie!"

"Ah, it was no big deal," he said, smiling. "Glad you like it, buddy."

Lily opened her gift from Charlie next. Grateful to have also received a Dilby Dragon, she excitedly rambled on about the Peruvian Vipertooth that she decided to name Pixie.

The rounds continued, and as expected, all of the children chose to open their presents from Charlie first. Dominique and Victoire did not seem very impressed by the smoke billowing from their matching Antipodean Opaleye figures, but they did rather like the pearlescent color.

To Rose's glee, her parents behaved as she and her cousins opened their presents. Unfortunately, on the fifth round, Victoire noticed that she was on her last gift but everyone else still had a few.

"Where are the rest of them?" she inquired, frowning. She juggled the small, golden gift between her hands. "Everyone else still has some."

Rose chewed on her lip. Victoire was quite a bit older than the rest of them and the rule had always been that only children were to receive presents. She looked up and saw that her uncle, Harry, looked just as annoyed as she was.

"Well, we didn't know we were supposed to buy for her," Ginny said, slowly, anxiously meeting Bill's gaze. "She's not a kid anymore, really."

Victoire furrowed her brow. "But all of my cousins got plenty of gifts! I only got—" She counted. "Five! I must've gotten at least a dozen last year!"

"She's just like my cousin, Dudley," Harry muttered into Ginny's ear, just loudly enough for Rose to hear.

"Victoire!" Fleur hissed. "Do not act like a brat! You 'ave plenty of gifts!"

Victoire opened her mouth to argue, but Fleur made a throaty noise at her. Pouting, she opened the tiny golden box and rolled her eyes when she saw that it was a chintzy necklace.

"Who got zat for you?" Fleur asked.

Victoire looked at the tag and muttered, "Aunt Audrey and Uncle Percy."

"And what do you zay to zem?"

Victoire rolled her eyes again. "Thank you." The words dragged on so that everyone knew that she was not being sincere.

"Good girl," Fleur said. She gave everyone a curt smile. "I am zorry for my daughter's attitude. We don't know where she gets it."

By the end, everyone except Victoire had received almost everything that they wanted plus some. Rose showed her mother the beautiful headband that George and Angelina had gifted her, explaining that it was charmed to tame her hair while she played Quidditch. Hugo could not put his Dilby Dragon down, and neither could Louis or Lily, so the three of them played together on the floor, mimicking the sounds they thought dragons might make.

Molly left the room to put out the leftovers. As per tradition, lunch was much more casual than Christmas breakfast and dinner. Everyone could grab a plate and munch in the kitchen or living room while the kids broke their new toys in.

For the first time since the entire family had gotten together, everyone was getting along. Curious how they managed such a feat, Rose looked up at her father. As she watched him cradling his head, she realized why he was suddenly so quiet. He was hungover.

* * *

Percy Weasley combed his remaining hair over to mask his growing bald patch. His wife, Audrey, used Angelina's Famous Curling Cream in front of the mirror of their temporary bedroom, giggling excitedly when it worked. George had put together quite an impressive line for witches, naming all of the products after his wife and daughter.

"I'm so glad Angelina lent this to me," she enthused. "It works much better than the old stuff I used to get at Madam Primpernelle's. I wouldn't be surprised if your brother put her out of business!"

"You ought to ask her if she has anything for growing hair back," Percy mumbled. He leaned closer to her to peek in the mirror. "Blasted genetics."

"They _do_ have potions for that."

Percy frowned. "Yes, and none of them have worked so far."

"You've tried them?" Audrey asked, incredulously, screwing the lid back onto the cream. Her dull, frizzy hair had transformed into soft, bouncy ringlets. "You never told me!"

He shrugged. "Didn't want to get your hopes up in case they didn't work. Lo and behold, they didn't."

She straightened out her knee-length royal blue dress. "Suppose we ought to get down there and help your mum with the turkey."

"I suppose so," Percy agreed with a sigh. He tossed the comb onto the bed, giving up on the futile task of concealing his male pattern baldness. "I hope everyone can be civil for at least _one_ meal."

"Everyone got along for lunch," she pointed out.

"Only because we aren't all forced to eat at the same table."

"Well, you have a big family," Audrey noted. "You can't expect them to _all_ get along."

"We can expect them to at least be appropriate," he retorted, tightening his red tie. "The way they've been acting— _that's_ why we go to _your_ parents' for the holidays. It's fine to see my family for birthdays, weddings, my parents' anniversary… Christmas is too much. These people simply should not be in the same house for more than a few hours. Eventually, Ron and George are going to kill each other. I honestly have no idea how they manage to work together at the shop."

She kissed his cheek. "We'll go to my parents' next year. Then you won't have to be so stressed."

Percy liked that plan very much.

* * *

Fleur Weasley found herself humming the same tune that her mother-in-law had been singing all afternoon. As she helped Molly with the turkey, she frowned.

"Molly, zee song says we eat roast pig for Christmas Day, but we ate zee pig yesterday. Zis is turkey."

Molly frowned. "There was plenty of roast pig left over and we had that for lunch. I would say that counts."

Fleur did not seem convinced, but nodded, nonetheless. Questioning her mother-in-law was a surefire way to start another spat and the family had already bickered enough.

"Ah! All done!" Molly announced, grinning. She waved her wand and the last of the feast levitated out of the kitchen, down the winding hallways, and into the faraway dining room.

Fleur chased the platter, certain that a levitation charm was going to end in disaster in the cluttered house. Fortunately, the turkey made it to its destination safely, landing perfectly in the center of the table. Arthur and George rubbed their greedy hands together, salivating as they laid their eyes upon the juicy, perfectly cooked poultry.

"Dinner is served," Molly announced, curtseying into the dining room. She found her spot at the table and jubilantly began loading her plate.

For the first few moments, the family was too preoccupied with the delectable meal to notice that something was missing. At first, the only person to notice was the person responsible for its absence, and he said nothing. Unfortunately, after a bit of time passed, someone else noticed too.

"Didn't you mention eggnog yesterday, _Grand-mère?_ " Victoire inquired, her eyes taking in every item at the table. After looking over each platter and bowl at least thrice, she knew that she was not mistaken. There was no eggnog. "It's Christmas and I think I could break my diet for a drink."

George nearly spit out his mulled cider. Fleur frowned, unsure what her daughter had said wrong. Molly had, after all, mentioned that there would be eggnog.

"Yes, well, about that," Molly annunciated each word as hard as she could, "it seems that the eggnog has disappeared."

"Is that the ice box incident you and Uncle Ron were talking about?"

"Victoire, eat your Brussels sprouts," Fleur ordered, suddenly realizing what must have happened.

"I was just curious," she murmured, prodding at a Brussels sprout with her fork.

"I'm curious too, actually," Ginny butted in. "Where _did_ the eggnog disappear to, _Ron?_ "

"Gin…" Harry whispered, urging her not to incite another row.

Ron scowled. "Oh, like you wouldn't drink if you heard your wife didn't think you could take care of your own kids!"

"But that's _why_ she thinks you can't take care of your kids. You're just proving her point!"

Fleur shifted in her chair, uncomfortably, wishing that everyone would leave the subject alone. Wondering what was going through Hermione's mind, she looked at her bushy-headed sister-in-law. Her eyes were fixed on her plate and she was resting her chin in her hand as the squabble unfolded around her.

"There you go bein' a bitch again," Ron muttered, his mouth full of half-chewed turkey.

"Ron, don't make me hex you," Harry warned. He turned to Ginny. "Gin, leave him alone. Let's just eat dinner in peace, yeah?"

Arthur nodded in agreement. "Yes. Please. Peace would be lovely."

"A peaceful dinner with drunky Ronniekins?" George chastised. "I don't know if I'll ever live to see the day!"

"George," Molly warned, wagging a finger, "don't you get started again."

"Yeah George, don't get started," Ron mocked, smirking.

Molly quickly turned to him. "You are in _no_ place to be pointing fingers, young man."

" _Young man?_ " Ron echoed, blinking confusedly.

Arthur shot a glare in his direction and he quieted down. Fleur stifled a sigh of relief and continued picking at her small portions. She was always gobsmacked by the amount of food that English people could eat. Usually, it did not bother her, but the family was unable to eat an entire meal without shouting at each other. She wished they would eat less and leave the table sooner. Then, she had an excuse to go to her room with Bill and avoid all of the commotion.

Inwardly, she promised herself that they would go to France the following year. After the past two miserable holidays, she could not imagine that Bill would argue much.

"Ronald, could you pass the stuffing, please?" Hermione asked, giving him a small, sad smile.

He picked up the bowl and passed it to her. "Can I have it back when you're done or are you going to leave it with my mother the rest of the meal?"

"Ron, please don't," Hermione groaned.

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but his mother gave him a look that made him fear for his life. Instead, he shoveled more cranberry sauce down his gullet, hoping that the nutrients would help cure his nausea.

Fleur was delighted when Ron stayed quiet for the rest of dinner. His face was a rather sickly shade of grey, but she did not dare ask how he felt. She had a feeling that he would take it as another attack.

* * *

Hermione Granger could not sleep. While her mattress was not lumpy like Angelina and George's, she simply could not escape her wild thoughts. Ron snored beside her, occasionally growling and mumbling in his sleep, offering a constant reminder that he was there.

After hours of thrashing around in between the crisp sheets, she needed to use the restroom. The floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she padded down the hallway and down the stairs. To her surprise, the bathroom door was closed.

Based on the sounds coming from inside, she assumed that someone was actually in there and she stalked to the sofa to wait. Eventually, the sound of footsteps jerked her out of her short daze.

"Fancy seeing you awake," Harry said, holding his arms close to him. "Bloody cold, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded in agreement. "Quite."

"Is someone in the bathroom?" he asked. "I need to go."

"Yes, I've been waiting awhile." She crossed her legs, trying to stifle the urge to relieve herself.

Harry frowned and walked back into the hallway. Hermione heard him knock and ask, "Hello? Can you hurry up?"

The muffled sound of someone answering could be heard.

"Who was it?"

"George, I think," Harry groaned. "It may be a long wait."

Hermione chuckled. George was notorious for spending far too long in the loo. "Suppose we ought to get comfortable, then."

Harry plopped down on the sofa beside her. "Probably the most comfortable I've been since everyone's been here."

"Yeah, it's been pretty awkward," she agreed.

"So you're leaving the kids here, huh?"

"Harry, please don't."

He shook his head. "No, no. I think it's a good idea. You're too busy to pick up all the pieces with Ron's—er—problem. Rose and Hugo seemed pretty chuffed about it too."

Hermione smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. "Thanks, Harry. I needed that."

He frowned. "I can only imagine how bad he is at home. I mean, he's my friend and all, but I hate watching him act an arse and treat you the way he does."

"I get by," she said, quietly.

"Do you?" He did not sound so sure.

She exhaled. "I don't know, Harry. All I know is that I'm doing my best."

"I know you do."

They did not speak for a long while as they waited for George to finish his business. Somehow, the quiet semidarkness was comforting. It had been a long time since Hermione felt like Harry was on her side.

After what felt like forever, George barged out of the bathroom, his eyes wide. "You lot oughta watch yourselves goin' in there. I shouldn't have eaten all that fruit pie."

Harry pulled away from their platonic embrace and wiggled his eyebrows. "Ladies first."

Hermione laughed. "Oh gee, what a gentleman."

Still, her urge to pee was stronger than her desire to avoid George's foul smells, so she stood and walked into the bathroom. She quickly emptied her bladder and washed her hands before stepping out. Harry was waiting by the door.

"Thanks, Harry," she said, "for the encouragement. I needed it."

"I'm always here, Hermione. You know that."

She nodded. "Goodnight, Harry."

The stairs creaked beneath her weight. As she slipped back into bed with Ron, she suddenly felt much better about her situation. For the first time in a long time, she stopped thinking and worrying and she simply made a choice. As she drifted into a deep slumber, she wondered if a certain blond wizard's Christmas had been better than hers.


	25. Decisively

The week after Christmas was always a busy time at the Ministry of Magic. Any work that members of the Ministry had put off near the holidays was suddenly a priority, which meant that the Minister for Magic was flooded with paperwork. Stacks of parchment were piled around her entire office, organized by importance. Even Gob Strothers would have been impressed.

"These are done," Hermione announced, charming a pile of parchment to zip around the room and into her assistant's lap. "Can you run these down to Rolinius? He needs to keep pages one through three and pages four through seven will go to Mr. Willingham. Be sure to make that clear to him. He mixed the order up last time and it was quite a nightmare."

Madelyn nodded and stepped over two short stacks of parchment. It had been a long week for both her and her boss. Once the Minister signed the necessary documents, Madelyn took them to the departments that needed them and explained the paperwork in full. What Madelyn did not expect was the number of blisters on her feet from all of the walking. Nevertheless, she was happy to do all that she could for the Minister she remembered. For the first time in a long time, Hermione was nothing short of professional. She was always available, she was working hard, and if she missed a meeting, it was because it was low priority. To Madelyn's glee, she even offered to meet with Phoebe Humphries on her own. It was no secret that Madelyn was terrified of the stern woman.

Hermione knew that Humphries would not be happy when she saw the giant red X's scribbled across her papers. It would not have been fair to ask Madelyn to be subjected to the woman's misplaced anger. Alas, the meeting went better than planned. Harry accompanied his impossible second-in-command, to Hermione's delight. It was clear that he was just as unhappy with her as Hermione was, and after several threats, Humphries agreed to drop her many useless investigations. For once, the Minister for Magic felt like nothing could get in her way—not even the likes of Phoebe Humphries.

Just as she finished the next stack of papers, an envelope crawled underneath her heavy door. It danced its way to her and dropped into her lap, just as all memos did. It was sealed with the Ministry seal, so naturally, she assumed that it was more work. She ripped it open. To her surprise, it was not more work at all. It was a letter from her father-in-law.

_Dearest Hermione,_

_The children had a wonderful time at the house. They spent most of the time popping the Quaffle back and forth (Molly threw quite a fit when she caught them so don't tell her I knew - she'll have my head!) and playing with those dragons of theirs. She took them back to King's Cross today, so they'll be off to Hogwarts. We enjoyed having them and would be happy to take them again if you need. Hopefully, things slow down a bit before summer so you can spend more time with them. Hugo was asking about you quite a lot._

_Molly and the kids send their love._

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur_

Hermione held the letter close to her heart and a tear crept down her pale cheek. Leaving her children with her in-laws was not something that she wanted to have to do, but it was better for them and she knew it. Still, it hurt to know that her son was asking about her.

She heard a knock at the door and quickly wiped the tear from her face. Madelyn stepped inside, ready to collect more paperwork. Hermione had never been more grateful for the young assistant as she was that week. Before the redhead was hired, Hermione had a rather elderly secretary named Ethel that could not move much at all. Sadly, Ethel died at her desk. It was due to old age, of course.

"No rest for the wicked," Hermione muttered to herself.

"What was that, ma'am?"

The Minister shook her head and charmed another pile of papers to land into Madelyn's reaching hands. "Nothing. These will need to go to Virgil. All of these need to go to Ms. Stratton after he signs pages one, six, and fifteen."

As her assistant left once more, she felt hollow. Unfortunately, all of the work on her plate meant that she had not found time to see a certain blond wizard that had been weighing on her mind.  
  


* * *

Firewhisky warmed Ron Weasley's belly. After the holiday debacle, he spent most of his days sulking. His brother, George, forced him to take some time off, unpaid, which only fueled his fruitless, inescapable depression. With nothing to do, he had become a lump of a man, drinking and wallowing in his own self-pity.

While his wife knew that he was drinking, she was working overtime and did not know quite how much. If she did, he had a feeling he would have had divorce papers on his lap within seconds.

The house was in a state of disarray, and while that was nothing new, even Ron knew that it was worse than usual. Hermione often came home, showered, and immediately collapsed into bed, allowing his mess to grow each day. After a week, it was the filthiest that it had ever been.

When his wife Apparated home from work, he was chewing on a licorice wand that he had confiscated from his nephew. A glass of Ogden's and pumpkin juice sat on the coffee table beside several dirty dishes, a number of candy wrappers, and a stained pair of sweatpants. Usually, Hermione would scold him, but instead, she hung up her jacket and purse and kicked off her shoes. Without saying a word, she disappeared down the hallway. Ron heard the sound of the shower starting.

By the time that the water stopped running, he was nearly finished with the licorice wand. He heard the bathroom door creak open. Wrapped in a towel, Hermione padded down the hallway and into the living room where he sat. Her wand and the fabric of the towel were curled in her fingers.

"I'm going to go to bed, Ron. If you're hungry, there are some instant Muggle meals in the ice box. Help yourself." She turned on her heel and headed towards the bedroom before realizing she had something else to tell him. After looping back, she leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, by the way, your dad sent me a letter while I was at the office. The kids had a good time and your mum took them back to Hogwarts today." She started heading towards the bedroom again.

Ron frowned. "Oi! Hold on a minute!"

Hermione groaned and turned back around. After doing paperwork all day, the last thing she wanted to do was talk to her inebriated husband. "What, Ron?"

"They went back _today?_ "

"Yes, I told you yesterday that they would be," she retorted, slightly irritated that he had forgotten. "It's the day after New Year's Day. They always go back round now."

Ron dropped the licorice wand and stood, nearly falling over as hours of drinking on the sofa set in. "You didn't tell me that!"

"Yes I did. You just don't remember." She rolled her eyes, clutching the towel close to her so it wouldn't slip. Her knuckles turned white as her grip on her wand tightened. "Look, Ron, I really just want to go to bed, if you don't mind. I've been working my fingers to the bloody bone."

"I would've seen 'em off!" he exclaimed, bumping into the coffee table. The glass of firewhisky and pumpkin juice jiggled and spilled all over the tabletop and onto the floor.

"In this state?" she breathed. "I think not! Look at yourself—you can't even stand up straight!"

"Hermione," he begged, approaching her. "Hermione, I-I—" A hiccup halted his speech. "—I would do _anything_ for our kids. You have to know that." Tears were brimming in his blue eyes as he stepped closer to her. The room was spinning, yet he still was able to find her face. He ran his fingers along her cheek and pushed her chin up to press his lips to hers. To his dismay, she cringed and pulled the violet towel higher, assuring that he could not get a glimpse of her breasts. His sad eyes became black and hateful. "You won't even kiss me?"

"You taste like vomit and booze," she grumbled, shrinking away from him. "Ron, I know you love them but you just can't stay sober long enough to be trusted with them. They had to get to King's Cross on time or they would've missed the train. Your mother is just more reliable than you are. I'm sorry."

"This isn't even _about_ the drinkin', is it?"

"Of course it is," Hermione mumbled, taking a step backwards. He suddenly seemed much taller. "Why else would I do something like that?"

"Oh, don't play dumb, Hermione. You sent them off 'cause we ain't gettin' along," he accused, gritting his teeth.

"I mean, it doesn't help but—"

He put his hand on the doorframe and towered over her, trapping her in one direction. "You're mad at me so you're keepin' 'em from me. Punishment, innit?"

"Ron…" she started slowly, backing away in the only direction that she could. Her eyes welled with tears. "It's not that…"

"Don't lie to me! I know you've been hidin' somethin' from me, Hermione. The motel in Liverpool, sendin' the kids off, the mood swings and your little date with Malfoy…"

Hermione balled her fists and held in a sob. "I don't need this, Ron."

All the stress that she had been feeling from work, from her children's absence, and from her husband's alcoholism had been bubbling up inside of her. As he pressed her, she could feel her courage growing. Since she had not seen Draco, she had unintentionally internalized every emotion. Every feeling that she had been holding in for so long was near the point of boiling over.

"And you think _I_ do?" he spat. "Every day you're yellin' at me or givin' me the cold shoulder! I'm bloody sick of it! I knew you were a bit of a harpy when I married you, but I didn't think you'd ever do anything like _this!_ "

She sucked in a deep, shaky breath. Ron had pushed her over the edge that she had been teetering on for years. It was time to do something that she had been meaning to do for a long time. "Maybe we need some time apart, then."

"Time apart?" he asked, dumbfounded. "I was just sayin' we need to stop fightin' all the time!"

"I need time to think." Her eyes traveled to her jacket, purse, and shoes which were in the living room behind him.

"What about what _I_ need?" he growled, still blocking her way. "You never seem to give a rat's arse about that!"

She glared at him, her eyes still red and watering. "Well, you're worried about yourself enough for the both of us, I'd say."

"So that's it, then? You want rid of me."

"That's not what I said. I just—I think we both need some time to ourselves," she explained, carefully. "I'm going to get changed. Go get some rest and sober up." Before he could argue, she turned around and went to their bedroom. She locked the door behind her.

Ron stumbled after her, shouting obscenities and banging on the door as she dressed herself. After pulling on a sweatshirt and blue jeans, she waved her wand and her belongings started packing themselves into her bag. Still, she opted for bags with an Undetectable Extension Charm. While they were now marketed as "bottomless bags", and sold en masse, she chose the cheaper Muggle options and charmed them herself.

After several moments, the banging stopped. Hoping that he was gone, she unlocked the door and quietly whispered, " _Accio purse! Accio shoes! Accio jacket!_ " The items floated down the hallway, past a perplexed Ron, and ran straight into the door. Hermione cracked it open and reached for them, only for Ron's hand to grab her wrist. "Ron, let go!"

"You _can't_ leave," he choked, his eyes red. "You just can't."

With a gulp, Hermione managed to threaten him. "Ron, don't make me hex you."

He opened his mouth, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. The cogs in his brain were working as quickly as they could, given his intoxication. After nearly a full minute, he let go, settling on the fact that maybe she was not bluffing.

"You'll come back, right?" His voice was small.

Hermione met his eyes and gave him a solemn smile. "I don't know, Ron."

Then, with the bag and her purse slung over her shoulder, she Disapparated.

* * *

The Potters were enjoying a late dinner. Everyone at the Ministry of Magic was working extra hours, including Harry. Assessing the damage that his second-in-command had done had taken up most of his day, and while he hated to admit it, he wondered if he ever should have promoted her. Corporate nonsense was not part of his management style, but as per the Minister for Magic's recommendation, he wrote her up so she would heed his warning.

"How'd she take it?" Ginny asked, cutting into her pork-chop. The knife struggled as the meat was quite tough.

"Not well," he admitted, "but what was I supposed to do? I've already talked to her dozens of times and she never listens. She's a good Auror but she needs to get the bloody goblin off her back."

"Sounds like you got the point across this time, though." She chewed on a piece of pork for far too long. "Blimey. I really botched these, didn't I?"

"You didn't _botch_ them," Harry lied. He had been trying to cut into his own pork-chop for nearly two minutes straight. "They're just a bit overdone."

"A bit?" Ginny laughed, prodding at the slab of meat. "It's like eating rubber!"

"Well, I'm sure you had a long day what with taking the kids to King's Cross and all."

Ginny let out a sigh and stabbed a green bean. "I suppose so. I'll miss them, but honestly, they were starting to drive me a bit mad. James never did have a good explanation for why he failed his Astronomy exam."

"We didn't even have those midyear exams when we were kids," Harry defended. It was no secret that James was his favorite son, whether he would admit it or not. "Seems like they're just giving them more work for the hell of it."

"I doubt McGonagall would just issue exams for 'the hell of it'," Ginny disagreed. She took a sip of wine. "You can't blame her. He got a 'D' for Merlin's sake! One point less and it would've been a 'T'! Do you _want_ your son to be held back _again?_ "

James's grades had been slipping, not because he was dim, but because he simply did not care. He was convinced that he would work with dragons with his uncle and his N.E.W.T.s wouldn't matter. Only his mother's threats kept him in school.

"Well, I didn't go back—" Before Harry could finish his rebuttal, he heard a knock at the door. Frowning, he excused himself from the dining room table and shuffled his feet to the foyer. To his surprise, when he opened the door, his sister-in-law stared back at him. Her eyes were red and swollen.

"Hermione," he breathed, "what's wrong?"

"Ron—I—he—I just need t-to be away from him f-for a while," she stammered. "A long while. Can I come in?"

"Yes, yes, of course." He opened the door wider and beckoned her inside. After closing it behind her, he led her away from the foyer. "What happened?"

"The inevitable, honestly," she muttered, following him out of the kitchen. "I'd rather not talk about it, if that's okay?"

"Yes, of course." He offered a hand to take her things as they stepped into the dining room. "Ginny, er—I think Hermione is going to stay with us for a bit. Are the sheets in the spare bedroom clean?"

Ginny nodded, getting to her feet. "Yes, yes, of course they are. Oh, Merlin, Hermione. You look awful." She gave her friend a squeeze. "What in the hell did he do this time? Is this about the whole Christmas fiasco? He was a right git. I could've just strangled—"

"She'd rather not talk about it, Gin," Harry cut in. He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. "I'm uh—I'm going to take all this up to the spare. Hermione, are you hungry? There's an extra pork-chop if you'd like it."

Hermione shook her head as Ginny pulled out a chair for her. "I don't think I could eat if I wanted to." She sat down. "Thanks, though, Harry. I appreciate it."

Ginny gave her a sad smile and sat at the table with her. "You're better off, anyway. The pork-chops are terrible."

Hermione laughed a little, thankful for her sister-in-law's inadvertent sense of humor.

"Hermione, I—I knew he was bad but—I'm so, so sorry."

"It's fine," Hermione mumbled, resting her chin in one hand and placing the other on the table. "Honestly, I'm just so grateful for the both of you. I feel like it'd be on the front page of the _Prophet_ by morning if I checked into the Leaky or something."

"You're not wrong," Ginny agreed, squeezing her hand. "Look, we're here for you. You can stay here as _long_ as you need. He'll get it together. I'm sure this will be the wake-up call he needed. You've just been letting him get away with it for too long is all."

Hermione nodded, but deep down, she did not want to wait for Ron to "get it together". Deep down, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of him for good.


	26. Ready

The morning air was filled with the sweet and smoky aroma of frying bacon and buttery pancakes. The Potters had spent their early Saturday morning cooking breakfast together as they often did, laughing and chitchatting about their weekend plans while the bacon sizzled away. As they loaded their plates, they heard a loud yawn.

"Good morning," Ginny greeted her sister-in-law, who was stretching and rubbing her eyes. "How'd you sleep?"

"Really well, actually," Hermione was smiling. Her untamable mane stuck out in all directions, but she did not seem to notice.

"Well, that's good news." The redhead was surprised by her answer. Most people would not sleep well after separating from their spouse. "Breakfast?"

"Thanks, Ginny, but I'm actually going to skip it today. I think I'm going to get cleaned up and head down to Diagon Alley."

With her plate full, Ginny brushed past Hermione and entered the dining room. "You sure you're feeling up to that?" Her stomach growled as she sat. "I can tag along if it's just a morning trip—keep you company."

Hermione turned to face her slim sister-in-law and combed her fingers through her hair. The lie fell easily from her lips. She had had quite a lot of practice as of late. "I'm going to meet Katie, actually. We've had this planned for a few days now."

"Katie Bell?" Harry asked, pulling out a chair and sitting beside his wife. He picked up a slab of bacon and chewed on it. "I didn't know you two were still friends."

"We are." It was the truth. Katie worked for the Ministry and once in a great while, they would eat lunch together. Of course, she had been spending less time with Katie and her other coworkers and more time with Draco Malfoy, but Harry and Ginny did not need to know that. "Are you not friends with her anymore, Harry? Her office is closer to yours than it is to mine."

"I suppose we chat in passing," he murmured, cutting into a chocolate chip pancake with the side of his fork.

"Yes, well, I think I'm going to go take a quick shower and head out. I suspect I won't be in until late afternoon, but I'll see you two once we're done?"

"Maybe." Ginny spoke with her mouth full. It was a common Weasley trait. "We're actually meeting with Luna and Rolf for Exploding Snap and butterbeers 'round four. If you're done early, we'll probably catch you on your way in."

Hermione nodded. "Well, have fun. See you later!" With that, she turned on her heel and waltzed to the bathroom.

Neither Harry nor Ginny had ever seen her look happier.

"That was weird," Ginny mumbled, her mouth still quite crammed with mashed bits of bacon and pancake. "You'd think she'd be upset."

Harry simply shrugged. "Rather she act like this than moping about the house."

Ginny ate slowly, her eyes fixated on the spot where Hermione had stood with that mischevious grin on her face. Something was suspicious, but she could not quite put her finger on it.  
  


* * *

  
Early morning snow melted against the windowpanes, quietly dancing in frigid streams of winter melancholy. Fuzzy-brained and lethargic, Draco Malfoy took a cup of peppermint tea to the table. As drooping eyelids begged him for another hour of rest, he sipped on the hardy beverage and let its warmth run through his cold veins.

The holiday season had not gone as he hoped, though it did go as he had expected. Mealtimes were highlighted by his father's nitpicking and his son ravenously clearing his plate so he could retreat to his designated guestroom. Draco tried to exchange pleasantries with them both, and while his mother tried to help, the other two Malfoy males were far too stubborn. Only when Scorpius unwrapped _Most Macabre Monstrosities_ did he show any kind of affection, and it was exceptional gratitude more than anything. Draco had silently thanked Hermione Granger for the recommendation.

Comfort embraced him as the warm familiar liquid ran down his throat. He was not sure if what he was feeling was sadness, loneliness, or sheer boredom. No matter what it was, he did not have the energy to thwart it.

Just as he lifted the teacup to his lips once more, he was interrupted by a knock. Whoever it was, they were knocking rather urgently, so he placed his teacup back on the table, fixed his obsidian robe, and shuffled his feet to the door. As he opened it, he was surprised by arms being thrown around his neck.

"Granger," he heaved, nearly having the wind knocked out of him. "What's this all about?"

"Oh, I'm just having a wonderful morning," she sang, practically skipping inside the cottage. She hung up her jacket and her purse, humming to herself. The blond wizard assumed the tune was a Muggle song since he didn't recognize it. Plucking her shoes off her feet, she frowned and added, "Draco, you look positively distraught. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing." He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to fix it. "I just wasn't expecting you is all."

Hermione looked like she had been kicked in the teeth. "I mean if it's a bad time—"

"No, not at all! I um—I haven't made anything to eat, I'm afraid. I've been meaning to go for a shop. Can I offer you some tea? It's peppermint." He began fumbling with his robe in the kitchen as Hermione sat down in the neighboring dining room. "I've only just brewed it, so it's still hot."

"That would be lovely, thanks," she called back.

Displeased with the robe's lazy wrinkles, Draco dragged his feet into the dining room. With a swift wave of his wand, a teapot and a teacup levitated from the kitchen and landed in front of her. The tea poured itself as it often did.

"So what brings you here? Hard to believe there's more trouble in paradise judging by your mood." There was a snarky tone about his voice. "Did Weasley make it a whole hour without a drink or setting something on fire?"

"Depends on if you'd call it _'trouble'_ ," Hermione alluded, ignoring his bitter comment. She took a sip of tea, a smile on her blood red lips. "I'm staying with Harry and Ginny."

Draco's grey eyes were drawn to her lipstick-covered mouth. Rarely did she put so much effort into her appearance, but in that moment, she looked just as she had when she was only nineteen. He cursed himself for not getting dressed and fixing his wild locks that morning. "Is that so?"

She gave him a matter-of-fact nod. "As of yesterday."

"How did Weasley take that?" He straightened his back in hopes to look at least a bit more well-mannered. Whatever foul mood he was in was beginning to diminish.

"Exactly how I thought he would," she replied with a shrug. "We had a bit of a fight at Christmas about the kids staying with his parents. It all just sort of piled on."

"Seems like this has been a long time coming," he noted.

"Clearly," she chuckled, awkwardly scratching the back of her head. When she planned her day, she expected it to be less nerve-racking. In the time that she had not seen him, Draco had seemingly only grown more handsome. "So how was your Christmas?"

He let out a sigh, deciding that she did not need to know the gory details. "Well, the good news is that Scorpius was quite pleased with that book you recommended."

"I _told_ you. Where'd you find it?"

"Moribund's. The old coot wanted a hundred Galleons for it," the svelte wizard scoffed. "I talked him down to seventy."

"You threatened him," she deduced with a roll of her eyes. Tea rushed down her gullet as she took another drink.

He shrugged, nonchalantly. "Being a Malfoy occasionally has its perks."

"I can't say I'd know much about that." Her eyes were dark.

One hundred Galleons was more than fair for such a rare book, and he certainly had the riches to afford it.

Ambition spun in his silver eyes. "There's always time, Granger."

She choked on her tea, blushing furiously. Apparently, the red lipstick had not been as subtle as she thought.

"If you'll excuse me, I ought to go change into some actual clothes for the day." With that, Draco stood and disappeared down the hallway. Hermione would have never noticed, but he felt a bit self-conscious when he was anything short of aristocratic.

The wild-haired brunette's fingers flew to the edge of her lips, hoping that the product's violet packaging rung true. When she found it in Madam Primpernelle's, it read, "TEA-PROOF! FEAST-PROOF! SNOG-PROOF!" In much smaller letters, it added: "ONLY COMES OFF WITH MADAM PRIMPERNELLE'S SIMPLY MAGICAL MAKEUP REMOVER!"

She heard footfalls coming her way and quickly smoothed her dress, not wanting to get caught fussing over herself. As Draco sauntered into the room, she had to stifle a gasp. While he wore the same all-black button-up and blazer that he usually did, he had a way of always making himself look more attractive. Her cheeks became hot. Judging by the smirk on his face, she was ogling.

"Like what you see?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Hermione cleared her throat. "You look rather nice, if that's what you're asking."

"'Rather nice' or astonishingly handsome?" As he sat down across from her, he felt much more confident. Taking Hermione Granger's breath away was always one of his favorite hobbies, and based on her reaction, she was nearly his again. He could feel desire emanating from her pallid skin. The almighty Minister for Magic ached for him, and he was not too proud to admit to himself that he ached for her too.

"Both, I suppose," she muttered, resting her chin in her hand. "What were we talking about again? Oh, right. Christmas. How was the rest of it? Anything fun?"

"Nothing worth mentioning. My father spent most of the meal insulting me and barking orders at the help." Hermione glared at him, silently willing him to choose another phrase for his parents' hired house-elf. "Really it went as expected." He finished his tea. "It sounds like yours was more eventful than mine."

"With nearly thirty people in the same house, it's inevitable, don't you think?" She laughed, suddenly finding humor in the previous week's situation. "Ron drank all the eggnog _again_. Then he tried to fight with me and his mother in front of the entire family. All in all, mine went as expected too, I suppose."

The corners of his pale lips curled. "Sounds like we ought to reassess our holiday traditions."

She emptied her teacup and smiled. "Perhaps so."

A draft of cold air prickled Draco's snowy skin, putting an abrupt halt to his flirtations. "Is it a bit cold in here?"

"Yes, actually." Hermione had been nearly freezing since she entered the room but had not said anything. Her anxiousness only warmed her face.

"Do you mind if I start a fire?" he inquired, standing. "Or will that trigger some sort of terrible flashback from Weasel's stupidity?"

Her eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head. "It's your house."

The tall wizard glided into the sitting room. Hermione found herself watching him from behind, and feeling a bit empty once he was out of eyeshot. Since she was finished with her tea, she stood and took the dishes upon herself. With a quick swish of her wand, the tea set was clean and stored away in the kitchen cupboard.

She padded into the sitting room and plopped onto the sofa. The room was beautiful, and until then, she hadn't realized how little time she had spent there. Most people would have been examining the room, itching to take in every inch of its Gothic magnificence. Hermione, on the other hand, was staring at Draco's back after quickly glancing at each wall. He was bent over the fireplace, muttering to himself about the "damn wet logs".

"So when are you and Weasley finalizing the divorce?" he asked after several minutes of incoherent mumbling.

The brazen question shocked the witch. "Er—I suppose I'm not sure. I only just left him yesterday."

Draco cursed at the damp oak logs once more. They refused to catch fire. "Well, no reason to waste time. He might get the wrong idea. Never been the brightest, that one."

Hermione shifted nervously. "Yes, well, I don't know if I'm going to _divorce_ him just yet. This is all very new."

The blond quickly jerked upward, hitting his head on the fireplace. He rubbed his scalp and glowered at her. "You can't be serious."

"I mean, I just don't know if that's the route to take yet. Ginny and Harry will keep it all out of the papers for now. I can expect Ron not to mention it to anyone important."

"Of course it's the route to take," he spat, squatting back down. Finally, with one last raging swing of his wand, the logs caught aflame. He got to his feet and turned to her. "You've already left him for Merlin's sake. Just finish the bloody job."

Hermione said nothing. Perhaps he was speaking with selfish bias, but he could not help it. Draco Malfoy had only been jealous of Ron Weasley twice in his life: once when Harry Potter chose to befriend him and once when Hermione Granger chose to marry him. She was nearly his again and suddenly she was backtracking.

He took a confident step towards her and lightly ran his fingers under her chin, softly urging her to look up at him. Entranced, she obliged.

"Why are you here, Granger?" He towered over her, standing as she was still sat upon the couch. Her heart lurched once his eyes met hers.

She gulped as he drew his hand away from her face. His drilling gaze kept her focused upwards just as much as the physical touch had. "I-I'm visiting you after Christmas."

Draco did not find her answer to be sufficient. "But why?"

"Well, w-we're friends, yes?"

A smirk crept onto his face. "Do you wear red lipstick to visit all your friends?"

"There's nothing wrong with taking pride in your a-appearance." She stood and balled her fists, but her tone faltered. He did not budge, keen to call her bluff. The woman couldn't even convince herself that she meant what she was saying.

"The Granger I know doesn't give a hippogriff's arse about how she looks unless she's trying to get her hands on something," he pointed out.

"I-I—" He was so close to her that she could smell the nostalgic scent of Fraser fir and musk. It brought back passionate memories of electric lips, sweat-kissed flesh, and carnal yearning.

Draco weaponized his seductive nature, letting his minty breath run over her pale face. "You wouldn't have shown up here giddier than a gnome in Herbology if you had any intention less than being rid of him for good. Admit it."

She stammered for a moment, trying to convince herself that she was too chivalrous to let her desires best her. Draco was attractive, but never had she let things go too far, and she was not about to start. After all, she was still married. If something were to happen between them, it would have to wait.

Alas, her logic failed as his familiar smirk beckoned her. Quickly, she remembered exactly what she was thinking about when she put on the blood red lipstick. In all of the years that she had known Ron, he never made her feel the way that Draco did. Perhaps it was wrong, but deep within her, there was an animalistic need that she had to fulfill.

Before she knew it, her lips were on his.


	27. Inventory

Ronald Weasley staggered around the snowy, bustling street. His eyes were red and swollen from a night of crying and drinking, but after thinking long and hard, he realized that there was only one way to convince his wife to come home. He had to prove himself.

After stopping at Sugarplum's Sweets Shop and buying her a box of heart-shaped chocolates, he began marching to Number 93 Diagon Alley. Snowflakes melted into his red hair, and while everyone around him had thought to wear jackets, he was adorned in his usual stained sweater and joggers. With the plum shopping bag looped around his forefinger, the redhead drunkenly stumbled past Flourish and Blotts. His stomach sunk when he saw _The Witches of the Wizengamot_ and a large poster of his spouse in the display window.

"Doin' this for her," he reminded himself, aloud, earning a concerned glanced from a plump witch passing by. "Mind your own, would ya?"

The witch's beady, black eyes widened and she hurried past him, pulling her scarf close to her thin, mauve lips. She remembered the man from a slew of nasty articles in the _Daily Prophet_.

He moved briskly past the bookshop and let his feet carry him until finally, he stood in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. George's—and technically Fred's—animated face was perched atop the front door, staring blankly as it took off its hat and put it back on over and over again. After inhaling deeply, Ron pushed open the jingling doors and headed towards the cash register.

"Mr. Weasley!" a young, pockmarked boy squawked. The sandy-haired teen wore an orange blazer with dozens of spinning, spraying, and hissing pins. "We weren't expecting you."

"Where's George?" Ron roared, leaning against the purple counter.

The boy gulped, taking in Ron's deep, baggy eyes. He had heard horror stories about Ron visiting the shop while he was under the influence of alcohol, but never had he actually witnessed it. "Mr. Weasley!"

"Merlin's bollocks, Jared, how many times have I told you—" George stopped shouting once he emerged from the backroom. He pressed his lips into a thin line. "Ron."

"George."

George glanced at Jared. "Why don't you go check inventory?"

Jared agreed and scampered away into the back room, quickly combing his eyes over Ron first.

"Hermione left me, mate," Ron breathed, hanging his head lowly.

"Sorry to hear that." There was a somber note to George's voice. He did not want his brother to be unhappy, but he was not surprised that Hermione had broke things off with him. After all, she was the Minister for Magic and he was a bumbling drunk. "When'd that happen?"

"Last night. She's stayin' with Harry an' Ginny. I spent all night thinking about how to get her back and—and I need your help. I gotta work. From home, here, whatever. I'll do anythin', George. You gotta let me work."

His older brother did not look convinced. George took few things seriously, but the shop's success was one of them. "Not unless you're sober. Whatever help you need—you gotta get it. Until then, I can't let you work on anything. It's dangerous, and you're breaking the law every time you're drunk and you brew a potion or handle fireworks—pretty much any time you do anything I'd need you to be doing. They're actually starting to arrest people over things like that. I can't put crime on the payroll. I just can't. I let it play out too long before."

"So you'll hire that pimple-faced bloke but not your own brother?" he breathed, jerking his head towards the backroom.

" _Jared_ does his job," George spat, crossing his arms.

Ron knit his brows together. "He looks like he should still be in school! Do his parents know he's here?"

"He's a squib," George lowered his voice, "and he still has done more in the two months he's been working here than you did in the past five years."

"That's a bloody lie!"

"It's not, mate. I'm sorry, but you're on an indefinite vacation. You can come back once you get yourself sorted."

A pained expression was on Ron's face. "But Hermione—she won't—this is the only way."

"Look, I'm sorry about your wife." George leaned against the counter, resting his chin in his hand. "But it's not my problem."

"Not your problem?" Ron howled. " _Not your problem?_ We're brothers, for Merlin's sake! You should want me to be happy!"

George rubbed his temples. "You know I do, little brother, but she isn't taking you back until you get sober. If you want to work here, and if you want Hermione back, you need to tell Mum and have her get you to St. Mungo's."

"I-I'll just brew a hangover potion. There was that good'n in that book Mum used to have… Hermione must have a copy in the library. It'll be fine. Let me start next week. Th-that'll give me time."

George shook his head, solemnly. "Sorry, Ron. I don't think there's a potion on the planet that can fix you."

Cursing to himself, Ron turned on his heel and stormed towards the exit, knocking several products over on his way out. "Thanks for nothing!" he barked before the door closed behind him.  
  


* * *

  
Feminine hands ran down his lean sides, lightly trailing under his signature well-fitted black button-up. Draco Malfoy felt his lower lip being tugged on by familiar teeth before her pale, exposed legs met the edge of the sofa and folded beneath the two of them. The woman's frizzy chestnut curls splayed into a halo around her. It was a sure sign that he was in heaven. With her head comfortably resting on the tufted emerald throw pillow, her fingers danced back upwards, creeping up his arched and shivering spine. He smiled against her exploratory lips and she looped her arms around his neck, giggling much like she had when they were many years younger.

He pulled back for a moment, his lips hovering only inches above hers. Her doe eyes were brimming with desire. "There's no going back now."

"I know," she breathed, before drawing him close to her and passionately colliding her lips with his. There was warmth between the two of them that she had not felt in twenty years. It was all the proof that she needed.

Draco jerked away. "Say it, Granger," he hissed, running his lips dangerously close to her neck. "Say the words."

Goosebumps vibrated upon Hermione's milky skin as she felt the prickle of his breath. "I have to divorce him."

He smirked, feeling a sense of control that he had been hungering for since they were teenagers. His mouth lightly brushed her collarbone. "We shouldn't do this yet."

"Draco, you're _ruining_ it," she whined, finding herself unable to cease what they had started. "It's not like we haven't done this before."

He rolled away from her and stood, stretching his arms. "Well, we would've done it again by now if you'd come to your senses long ago, but that's not my fault, is it?" He reached out to her, offering her a hand to help her up. "Come on, Granger. Let's get some food."

"I'm not hungry," she pouted, groaning as he helped her to her feet. It had been years since she acted like such a petulant teenager, but the blond wizard brought it out in her.

"You certainly seemed hungry a moment ago."

A strong blush crept up onto her cheeks. As she followed him, she noted that there was not a single red mark on his face. Madam Primpernelle's snog-proof promise had proven to be true.

"There's a little café in the village that I think you'll like." Draco pulled on a black pea coat exactly like the one he wore when they were adolescents.

"Are you mad?" she hissed. "I can't just go waltzing in public with you right now. People already suspect—" She cleared her throat. "—well, they think I'm colluding with you, at the very least."

He rolled his eyes. "I have some Polyjuice in the bathroom cabinet if you're _that_ worried about it. It may look a bit strange if I'm on a date with Ardus Castle, though." The Slytherin shuddered.

"Draco Malfoy, why on earth do you have a Polyjuice Potion to become _Ardus Castle?_ " Realizing that she didn't care, she waved the question away. "It doesn't matter. It's _risky_ , Draco. There are a lot of witches and wizards here in Willow Ale Court and some of them have already seen us together. I don't want to raise their suspicions even _more_."

"I highly doubt the _Prophet_ has photographers at a bloody Muggle café," he muttered, peeling off his jacket, "but if you're so worried, I may have a few eggs left in the ice box."

Hermione leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting as he fished through the ice box. His arm stretched as far as it could and emerged with a carton of eggs and a stick of butter. He reached in a second time and retrieved a large gallon of pumpkin juice. After closing off the frigid chasm, he twirled his wand and a frying pan pushed its way out of one of the wooden cupboards.

"Why _do_ you have Polyjuice to become Ardus Castle?" she asked again, curious now that she had convinced Draco not to escort her into a public place just yet.

Draco shrugged, his back to the frying pan as he flicked his wand. Four eggs floated into the air and cracked into the sizzling pan before the shells disposed of themselves. Salt and pepper shakers rose from the spice rack and seasoned them lightly. "Well, if you must know, I was going to break into his house."

The brunette smacked him softly on the arm. "Be _serious_ , Draco."

"Oh, I'm quite serious," he replied, flicking his wand again. Two plates, two goblets, and silverware sat itself out on the counter. With a second flick, two eggs landed gracefully on each plate and the pumpkin juice poured itself into the goblets. He smacked his wand against the counter a final time and the spread hovered just above their heads and into the dining room. "Rumors have been milling about for some time now. Apparently, he stole a number of my family heirlooms when my father's lovely Death Eater friends put them on the market. Mr. Burke had made it quite clear he wasn't welcome back after he Apparated out with an armful of Merlin-knows-what."

Hermione followed him to the dining room and pulled out the chair she usually sat in. The shy meal awaited her. "I knew he was a collector but had no idea he would want Dark artifacts."

"Ardus takes anything that will make him a profit," Draco sneered, cutting into his egg with a fork and knife. He used more force than necessary. "Rarely pays for it. He makes Mundungus Fletcher look like an innocent schoolgirl."

"But he's a _Ministry employee!_ "

Draco shrugged. "Ministry employee or not, he's always been a slimy git."

Hermione could not argue with that. She grimaced at the thought of him kissing her hand each time he saw her. "It's hard to eat thinking about him, honestly."

"What? He doesn't impress you with his _'enchantée, madame'_ nonsense?" Draco chortled. He chewed a bit of egg and swallowed it down. "Have no idea how that wife of his puts up with him."

His breakfast guest coughed on her pumpkin juice. "He's _married?_ "

"That's what the Polyjuice was for—so she wouldn't run me off with a mop!" he explained, still laughing. "She's quite fond of him. Merlin knows why."

"He's never brought her to any Ministry events. I wonder—oh, so he can make passes at me and everyone else there. Right." Hermione shoveled some egg-white into her mouth. "I try to stay away from him whenever he comes down from Bannockburn. Aside from being an absolute creep, it always struck me as potential bad press to be seen with him. Kind of like—" She stopped, deciding it was best not to finish her thought.

"Like it'd be potential bad press to be seen with me?" Draco finished her sentence for her, his voice only a mumble, but accusing, nonetheless. His sad, grey eyes were fixed on her as he took a long drink of pumpkin juice.

"Well—I—there are just things that need to be sorted…"

"I look forward to having it sorted, then," he said, firmly, flaring his nostrils. "In the long run, I can't be worse than _Weasley_."

Hermione mulled it over for a moment before replying, "It depends."

He clenched his jaw. "And does that change anything?"

Her heart twisted in knots. Even after she divorced Ron, the public would not like her new choice. Draco Malfoy was a former Death Eater, and though many were more tolerant of such things, the press had made their stance quite clear when it came to the Malfoy family. After admitting she had lunch with him, article after article slandered her. A relationship with him would only make her look worse.

The Minister for Magic cared about her career above most aspects of her life, but as she looked into the comforting pools of grey, the fear of the _Daily Prophet_ subsided. As long as she was with him, she could face anything. It would be messy, and she knew there would be days that it would not seem worth it, but in the end, it would be one of the best choices she ever made. After the divorce was final, they would not have to hide anymore.

"No, it doesn't." She gave him a small, genuine smile.

Draco smiled back at her, a rare sight for most, and an extraordinary sight for her. "We didn't get it quite right before, did we?"

Hermione shook her head, her wild curls swaying. "We didn't."

He raised his goblet of pumpkin juice. "Here's to second chances, eh?"

She grinned much more widely and raised her goblet too. "To second chances."  
  


* * *

  
The Leaky Cauldron was chockfull of its usual riffraff. Cracking jaws and clunking pint glasses could be heard as elderly men masticated their food and chugged their favorite ale. While most of them visited the hole-in-the-wall every day, there was one person that was just slightly out of place.

"Need a drink, Mr. Weasley?" the tired waitress asked.

"Ale—your strongest one. And a sandwich."

"No sandwiches, pumpkin cakes. We've talked about this before." The deep violet bags under the waitress's eyes had only grown deeper and more violet since the last time that she had seen him. Her tight curls were piled messily on top of her head in a way that quite reminded him of Bellatrix Lestrange. "Pretty sloshed today, are we?"

Ron shrugged. "S'pose so. You'd prob'ly be sloshed too if your wife was—was— _mm_..." His stomach rolled from overindulgence and he forgot what he had been saying.

"Bad day?"

He gave her a dark look, which answered her question.

"Got it."

Impatient, Ron sighed and waited for his drink, despite his cautionary nausea. Perhaps, he would ask his mother to take him to St. Mungo's soon—but it would have to wait. After the difficult week he had, he thought he was more than entitled to an ale.


	28. Giddy

Curled up on the sofa next to her favorite tall, blond wizard, Hermione Granger wondered how she had gone so long without him. Instead of spending the day complaining about her husband, she talked to him about books, parenthood, her achievements, his hobbies—everything that truly mattered. Never had anything felt more natural.

"…and _then_ , Ophelia Cork—oh, Merlin—hold on—" Tears of laughter clouded her eyes. "—okay, yes, I'm good now—Ophelia Cork, she—Merlin's beard—she—she walked face-first into the door! In front of everyone, including— _including_ Virgil Clearwater. Needless to say, she didn't get the promotion she was hoping for."

"She always _has_ been a dolt. Last time she showed up to one of my mother's little events, Tulip Parkinson spent half the party cleaning up a flood that that daft woman started in the lavatory. It took both my mother and me nearly an hour to find the right spell to fix the bloody rug."

Hermione snorted. "Sounds like Ophelia. Honestly, the only thing she's good at is filling out paperwork. She's applied for promotions six different times now and Virgil has always ended up going with an outside hire."

"Smart man," Draco said. His eyes traveled from the beautiful witch to the half-empty wine glass on the coffee table. "More wine?"

"No, no. I need to get back safely," she replied, laying her head on his shoulder. "I hate drunk Apparating."

"So does everyone. There's always the Floo, though." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. " _Or_ you can just stay here if you'd like to indulge a bit more. I imagine you couldn't even keep alcohol in the house with Weasley."

She bit her lip. "Draco…" The name fell carefully from her tongue. "I—I'm not sure that it's a good idea yet. Ginny and Harry will worry."

"And? You're a grown woman."

" _And_ if they start asking around the _Prophet_ might pick up on it."

"The _Prophet_ isn't even news," he scoffed. "If we were worried about that abomination that they call journalism when we were younger, we never would've set foot near each other."

"The public thinks it's news and I can't lose my job right now. I have two children to take care of," she reminded him, gently. "It's not like Ron is going to help."

"Yes, of course," Draco grumbled, selfishly wishing that she would stay with him anyway. The day had moved so quickly that he had barely savored the flavor of her lips. "You know, if anything were to happen, you can always ask me—"

The witch's gaze could have burned a hole through him. "Draco Malfoy, I will _not_ take your money."

"Suit yourself." He shrugged. "But keep in mind that it's there."

Still glaring at him, she flared her nostrils. Somehow, despite her obvious sneer, it did bring her some peace of mind. Divorce was to be taken quite seriously in the Wizarding world, thus she expected a lot of blowback—and once the public discovered who her new beau was, it was certain to get worse. "Thank you. I will."

The crackling fireplace was the only sound for a long while. Both the blond and brunette had been yearning for the day's events since they left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and they still were not entirely sure how to process it. They did not want it to end, but as the moonlight glistened upon the snow and the candles around the house lit themselves, it was becoming painfully clear that she would be going back to Harry and Ginny's soon.

"Before I forget, I'd like to show you something."

Hermione looked up at her handsome paramour, leaning away from him. "What is it?"

Standing, he jerked his head towards the adjacent hallway. "Follow me."

With a furrow of her brow, she willed herself to her feet. He led her out of the living room, treading tall with the utmost composure and his hands cuffed behind his back. Nervously, Hermione stopped behind him as they came to one of the handful of doors. She had opened the door to the room briefly once before when she was looking for the bathroom.

"As I said earlier, I've been trying to repair some of the damaged Malfoy heirlooms," he explained, his hand wrapped around the doorknob. "Unfortunately, the black market hasn't treated them as well as one would hope. The problem is: Dark artifacts are hard to fix. They can oftentimes only be repaired—"

"By using more Dark Magic," Hermione finished for him. She recalled reading the fact in _Magick Most Evile_ as a young girl.

He nodded, his molten silver eyes locked with hers. "There is more evidence of the Dark Arts in this room than anywhere you've probably been, Granger. You may want to prepare yourself."

"I've been in the Department of Mysteries."

The wizard shook his head. "The Malfoy collections are vast—even vaster if you include that of the Blacks and—" He paused. "—the Lestranges."

Hermione drew in a deep breath. She had not heard that name in many years, but it still haunted her dreams. "And why show it to me?"

His hand twisted and the doorknob clicked with the movement. "Because there's a particular artifact I'd like you to take a look at."

"Does this have something to do with the favor you mentioned a few weeks ago?"

"Nothing gets past you, Granger."

As the door opened, her stomach dropped. The room was overwhelmingly cold—colder than she remembered. She was overcome by grief, anger, despair, malice—every negative feeling that she could feel, she felt. Only once had she experienced such a phenomenon. And back then, a Horcrux had hung from her neck.

Dark Magic danced wickedly in the room, taking the form of glimmering gold and shining jewels, protected only by thin layers of glass. It was much larger than Hermione ever could have expected, considering the cottage's modest size. As she took her first step inside, it quickly became apparent that Draco was not lying. There were very few with such a collection of Dark objects. In fact, he may have been the only one in the United Kingdom.

"D-Draco, this is—this belongs with the Ministry. You'll be driven to madness with all of this in here," she whispered, her arms folded and her anxiety running high. "It's not healthy to be surrounded by this much Dark Magic."

Draco shook his head. "It's locked in a room for a reason. Dark or not, this is my family's history. It belongs with me. You forget: most of these items were in my home when I was growing up."

Unconvinced, she inquired, "So what is this artifact that you want to show me?"

He nodded, leading her through the winding aisles of standing shelves. After spending so much time in the room, the powerful magic hardly bothered him. Alas, he was no stranger to its effects. "We're nearly there."

The pounding migraine that Hermione was quickly developing told her that she needed to leave as soon as possible. Gems and baubles were shelved from the floor to the ceiling, each one of them cursed in their own right.

"We're here."

The shelf before them was pristine. An emerald-encrusted vase sat perfectly in the center of the shining wooden shelf, the glass protecting it glistening under the dim candlelight. Suddenly, the brunette witch's jaw clenched and she was filled with a sense of loathing so incredibly intense that she felt less human than animal. The raw emotion clawed at every corner of her heart, telling her to perform spells so terrible that she would not have thought to use them even in her wildest nightmares. Then, long fingers brushed through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. She was calm again.

"What is this?" she breathed, her eyes dead-set on the vase. "It—it—"

"Its magic is strong, yes," Draco drawled, snaking his arm around her middle. He kissed the top of her head. "I've been saving it for you. That's the only reason it's here."

"Saving it for me?" Her brows were knit together as she looked up at him. "Draco, we have a team of Aurors for this kind of thing. If you want, I can send Harry—"

"No," he said, carefully, "this isn't Ministry business. I saved it for you, personally—to destroy."

Curiosity was evident in her expression. "But I thought you wanted to keep all of your family heirlooms?"

"Not this one."

"Why?" she demanded. "What's so different about this one?"

He looked down at her. "It belonged to Bellatrix."

Hermione wrung her hands. "I suspect a lot of these things belonged to her."

"True," he confirmed, "but _this_ one was given to her as a gift. It's no Horcrux, but its magic is probably some of the most evil left in our world."

"Who gave it to her?" The witch held herself close to him, finding him to be the only solace amongst the disturbing artifacts.

"Voldemort. That bears little significance, I suppose. He gave her many things, all sinister to some degree," he admitted. "I've destroyed the rest of his nasty little presents. Anything else here of hers is a mere bauble that was stored away, not worthy of her time, let alone her magic. This, though— _this_ was given to her after her pregnancy announcement. Not as much an announcement as it was a secret, honestly. Nobody knew of it at the time—except Voldemort, my mother, and Rodolphus. Naturally, my mother was sworn to confidentiality once she found out, though I imagine she would have given her life to tell me if she ever knew that that child would one day try to harm my son." He inhaled. "It took a lot of reading Bellatrix's old scribblings to determine why the magic in this vase was so much stronger than anything else that she owned—and a lot of prying. My mother didn't like that. Fortunately, her oath burned up as soon as I discovered that bastard hag for myself."

"It would have been passed down to her—Delphini," Hermione whispered. Her eyes were dark. "Where did you find it?"

"I didn't. Theodore and Pansy had bought it from some bloke in Knockturn Alley—but they couldn't keep it in their house. Their cat got near it the day they put it on the mantel and they found it dead, wide-eyed, staring at the cursed thing. I'm a strong believer in keeping my family's belongings, Granger, but not this one. This one must be obliterated."

She gulped. "Why me, though?"

"You know why," he growled. "You don't have to do it tonight if you don't want to, but in the long run, it should be you. I waited this long because, well, you had other issues to sort through before you were ready. You can't get near something like this if you're under a lot of stress. It can consume you, Granger. I'm sure you're familiar with such things."

Hermione eyed him, recalling her time hunting for Horcruxes. Indeed, she had witnessed the repercussions of Dark artifacts firsthand. "How long have you kept this here?"

"Nearly four months," he answered, honestly.

"Surely you're talented enough to destroy it on your own," the bushy-haired woman pointed out, tucking her head into his shoulder. "Why leave it here all this time to eat away at you? You didn't even know that you could get me to come here."

"We had unfinished business, Granger. You were bound to come around sooner or later, even if it took a little push. Besides, it's the last important remnant of Bellatrix Lestrange's legacy of darkness, and you deserve to be the one to put it to its end. I owe you that much." He pulled away to meet her gaze. "Whenever you're ready, it's here."

"I think I'd like to get out of this room now."

"Of course, of course," he agreed, letting her lead so she could be the first one out. They wove through all of the shelves, the Dark artifacts shining brightly the whole way. "I shouldn't've—"

Stopping, she turned to look him in the eye. "No, don't. I want to be rid of it. I'm just a bit tired today."

He nodded, taking her by the hand. "I suppose you'll be leaving soon, then."

Quickly, she tugged him out of the room and slammed the door behind them. "Yes, I ought to be getting back to Harry and Ginny." She shuddered. "And I feel I need a bit of a shower after all that."

He coiled his arms around her from behind and kissed her temple. Dark Magic could take quite a toll on someone like her. "You'll be back tomorrow? I can stop by the market early so we can have breakfast."

The witch grinned as all of the negative emotions washed away with his touch. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be." She turned in his arms and casually circled hers around his neck. Standing on her tiptoes, the brunette pressed her lips to his, sweetly, yet longingly. After finally pulling away, she whispered, "Goodnight, Draco."  
  


* * *

  
Drunk after an evening with old friends, the Potters stumbled into the living room from their fireplace. Harry retrieved several Galleons from his pocket and piled them onto the nearest end table before collapsing onto the ruby-red sofa.

"Twenty-two Galleons!" he announced proudly, kicking his shoes off. One fell onto the floor and the other wedged between the couch cushion and the armrest.

"Only took you about ten tries!" Ginny giggled, sinking into the nearby armchair. Her face was red from a long evening of imbibing. "Are you sure you didn't potion Rolf? He _always_ beats you!"

Harry crossed his heart. "Swear I didn't!"

Ginny tried to soften her laugh. "We ought to be quiet. I imagine Hermione's in bed by now."

"Right, right," Harry whispered, seizing a throw pillow. He hugged it close to him. "Can you make some hangover cure? We're gonna need it."

"It's _illegal_ to brew potions drunk, Harry," she mocked him.

He rolled his eyes. "I promise I won't arrest you."

She sighed and rocked forward until her feet touched the floor. " _Fine._ "

"Thank you," he sang, burying his face in the pillow as she padded into the restroom. "You're the best, dear!"

"You're damn right I am," she grumbled, opening the ingredients cabinet. Her fingers brushed against several bottles before she found the few she needed. Tucking them under her arm, one by one, she groaned. "It'll be a weak one! I'm a bit short on—"

Before she could finish her sentence, she heard a loud _crack!_ and jumped. A vial of ginger roots tumbled to the floor, but to her pleasant surprise, did not shatter.

"Harry!" a familiar feminine voice exclaimed, giddily. "How was your day?"

The redheaded witch picked up the vial from the floor and emerged from the bathroom, squinting. In the living room, her sister-in-law was positively beaming, listening to Harry ramble about their evening with Luna and Rolf. Ginny's eyes leveled with the woman's striking red lips. She never wore lipstick.

"Hermione," Ginny interrupted, "you're in late."

"Ah, yes," Hermione replied, a slight blush creeping onto her cheeks. "We decided to get dinner at Alohomora. Broiled swordfish à la Niçoise—better than even the one I had in Lyon."

"So you were in Diagon Alley all day?" Ginny asked, setting the many vials down on the coffee table. They nearly rolled off but Harry stopped them.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, it was good to catch up with—" She nearly forgot who she claimed was accompanying her. "—Katie."

"What did you buy?" Ginny challenged.

Harry's eyes were fluttering open and closed as his wife pressed his sister-in-law. He was not entirely sure why his ginger counterpart was suddenly so hostile.

"Oh, we just w-window-shopped," the brunette witch fibbed. "Actually, I think I'm going to go to bed." She forced out a yawn. "I'm really quite exhausted."

"Sure," Ginny mumbled, nodding. Her gaze followed Hermione as she climbed the stairs. Once she was out of earshot, her eyes darted to Harry. "She's lying."

"About what?" he slurred.

"Diagon Alley. She wasn't there."

"Oh, she probably was." Harry let out a yawn. It was much more real than Hermione's. "I think we ought to head up too. I'm pretty tired."

Ginny hollowed her cheeks. "After I finish this potion. I don't think I could sleep, anyway."

Harry rolled off the sofa and kissed her cheek before taking the same route that Hermione had only a moment before. Ginny folded her arms, wondering where her sister-in-law had been and why she lied. Something was not adding up, and she was going to figure out what it was.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I don't think I love this chapter, but the Dark artifacts will be important in the future. Reviews are appreciated!


	29. Destroy

Narcissa Malfoy knew that her grandchild was facing a dilemma as soon as she broke the garnet wax seal. Once she deciphered Minerva McGonagall's spindly handwriting, she decided that it was time to involve her son. After all, it was his hard work that was meant to absolve them of their wrongdoings. If his only child was paying the price, he would be sure to put an end to it.

Furious, the woman rapped on the moss green door, the cold wind whipping her hair in every direction. She squinted through the glittering snow glare. It was not often that Lady Malfoy went outside, and judging by the winter frigidity, it would be last time for as long as she could help.

After a moment, the door cracked and she was greeted by her tall son, who was in her eyes, her spitting image. He was dressed from head-to-toe in all black with his platinum hair parted handsomely to one side. The affluent witch inwardly congratulated herself for raising such a well-adjusted gentleman. Despite her many attempts to protect him, he had still faced hell. Nevertheless, he prevailed.

"Mum?" he asked, confusedly.

"Yes, I am your mother," the older woman snapped, shivering. Usually, she would not take such a tone with her son, but between the cold air and her fear for her grandboy, she was in a bit of a mood. "May I come in?"

Draco stepped aside. "Yes, yes, of course." He closed the door behind her. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Ah, but you must have been expecting _someone_ , looking as dapper as you do so early in the morning," she retorted, pointedly. Her sullen stare carried judgment as she seated herself at his dining room table and placed her silver-pleated handbag in front of her. "Would it be the lady-friend you mentioned a couple of weeks ago?"

"No, actually," Draco quickly fibbed, sitting across from her. Avoiding her gaze proved just as difficult in adulthood as it was when he was a boy. "Just business, Mother."

Her interest was piqued. "What _kind_ of business?"

"Regarding the artifact we discussed several months ago," he explained, steepling his fingers. "The one that Pansy and Theo were so…unfortunate to find."

"Bella's vase? You still haven't done away with it?"

"Sadly, my attempts were unsuccessful."

In truth, Draco had never attempted to dismantle the object. There was another that loathed Bellatrix Lestrange just as much as he did, and she deserved to have her revenge. His sinister aunt's magic would be no match for her hatred—or her integrity.

Narcissa drew in a deep breath. "This is a problem, Draco. I was under the impression you destroyed it as soon as you determined that it was possible."

"It seems that it is a bit _beyond_ my learned style of magic."

Her enraged stare could have killed a lesser man. "I hope this person you are doing business with is well-qualified for the task. I don't think I could hold this family together any longer if you were sent away."

"I think the candidate was quite obvious." This was the first bit of truth to escape his lips. The candidate was much more obvious than he was. "Anyway, I suspect that isn't why you came. Have you already had your morning tea?"

"Yes, darling. Don't be bothered by it," she murmured, waving off the notion. "And no, it isn't why I came, though I must say this is all quite troublesome news. The Ministry is undoubtedly aware of Dark Magic of such caliber." With a sigh, she reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. It had already been opened. "I think you may want to read this."

Draco reached across the table and accepted it from her. The letter inside was written by the hand of his former headmistress.

_Dear Mrs. Malfoy,_

_I regret to inform you that your grandson, Scorpius Malfoy, has been the victim of an act quite cruel. We have contacted you instead of his father, at his request._

_Mr. Malfoy, along with his friend, Albus Potter, was taunted by a number of his fellow classmates from Slytherin House. To my understanding, this was due to the role your family played after the Second Wizarding War. The boys' school robes were transfigured into those of Gryffindor House and they were then stupefied. After this, they were dragged to the Forbidden Forest and hung in the trees by their collars, only to be pelted with rocks. You may thank Firenze the Centaur for retrieving and returning them to Rubeus Hagrid. Both boys were placed in the Hospital Wing and are healing rapidly. Madam Pomfrey suspects they will be fighting fit by tomorrow morning._

_This is a rather unusual circumstance, as the aggressors belonged to Mr. Malfoy's own house. In order to keep him safe, he will be staying in a private dormitory with Mr. Potter until further notice._

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has zero tolerance for the perpetrators' actions and they have been disciplined accordingly. As a result of this attack, we will be reviewing our dress code._

_If you have any questions, please contact me directly._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

"Those stupid little dunderheads," he seethed, his hands turning white from grasping the letter so hard. "Just like their bloody parents. I _told_ McGonagall those house robes were a _terrible_ idea. There was nothing wrong with the plain black ones."

Narcissa craned her neck. "Perhaps, he ought to be removed from the school. I'm not sure that they're _equipped_ to deal with the situation."

"Oh, that's preposterous," Draco barked. "He has to learn to stand up for himself. No other Malfoy would have fallen for such rudimentary spells at his age. And _rocks?_ How utterly _barbaric._ He certainly could have put an end to _that_ , at the very least."

"He is not you, Draco," she said, coldly. "Cursing his classmates does not come so easily."

"Then he must learn! He's bound to face this sort of animosity for the rest of his life, considering his _situation._ In the eyes of those cretins' parents, we're Potter sympathizers—traitors. As far as everyone else is concerned, he's the son of Voldemort. If we pull him out, we're teaching him to surrender. We're teaching him that you'll coddle him forever and frankly, Mother, you don't have enough life left in you to keep such promises. He _has_ to start defending himself."

Lady Malfoy's lips were fixed in a firm, slim line. Before she could find an adequate response, there was a knock on the door. She followed Draco's steps with her blue, worried eyes.

The door creaked open and a familiar Muggle-born launched herself at her aristocratic child. Her mouth fell agape as Draco cleared his throat and pulled away, gesturing the woman in her direction. It was clear that she thought they would be alone and, in all of her excitement, forgot to peer through the wide archway leading from the kitchen into the dining room.

"Mrs. Malfoy, lovely to see you," the Minister for Magic croaked. She awkwardly rubbed her forearm and hurried towards the table to shake the Malfoy matriarch's hand. They did not see each other often, but whenever they did, it was usually in a much more professional setting. "Always a pleasure."

"Likewise," Narcissa drawled, her expression calculative. "Draco, is this the _business_ you mentioned?"

"Yes, precisely. Minister, my mother and I were just discussing the vase."

Hermione Granger looked from her lover to his mother. "Of course. The vase," she repeated, slowly. "The one we discussed yesterday."

"The very same."

"An unusual choice, son," Narcissa burred, still not convinced that the woman was only there on business.

"Is it? She seemed to be quite fitting," Draco continued, pulling out a chair and beckoning Hermione. "Given her past, I can't think of anyone more qualified."

Narcissa laced her fingers together and leered, resolute. "Draco, I'd like to have a word with you."

Hermione's heart pounded in her ears as Draco nodded and tailed his mother into the sitting room. She wondered how much the fair woman knew. The Malfoy clan had always been rather observant, and Narcissa seemed to be the sharpest of them all.

The mother and son sat on the sofa. Across from the two of them, the fireplace crackled, warmly. Perhaps, it would have been a comforting scene if the circumstances were not so awkward. Before Draco could speak, Narcissa cast a muffling charm. The fireplace was, all of a sudden, silent.

"I know what you're thinking but—"

"The Minister for Magic? Son, have you gone absolutely mad?"

Draco closed his eyes. "I—"

"You told me you met with her for appearances—to discuss her book," Narcissa accused, thinking back to the press conference debacle. "Perhaps not a great political move for her, but admirably _brilliant_ on your behalf. _This_ , however— _this_ is absolutely _imbecilic._ "

"She's the best possible person for the job." He was adamant. "There's no denying it."

"But at what cost, Draco? Not _only_ could she have you arrested for every single thing you keep in that _room_ of yours, but she could have you tried and sent to Azkaban with one snap of her fingers. No waiting. No time to prepare. No Harry Potter to testify on your behalf," she warned. "Why her? Why not one of the hundreds of others that Bella tortured?"

"Most of those people are dead," he countered through gritted teeth.

"I just hope you know what you're doing, Draco." Her eyes were telling. "Scorpius needs you."

He shot her a dark look. "Is that why he asked McGonagall to contact _you_ instead of me?"

She gave him a sad smile. "He'll come around. Besides, you said it yourself. I don't have enough life left in me to be here for him forever."

Draco stood straight, hiding his worry. He knew that Hermione Granger could keep quiet, but he was not so sure that his mother could. "I suspect you'd like to see it destroyed."

"Given the circumstances, I think it's best you have a witness. I won't let you leave Scorpius on his own. He's a troubled boy, Draco." Narcissa looked him up and down as she got to her feet. "Not unlike you were at his age."

* * *

Morning tea at the Potters came much later than usual, as their late-night libations had left both of them feeling rather beat. Harry groaned as he picked up a sugar cube. Ginny cradled her head, the sour flavor of the hangover potion still on her tongue.

"It's nearly noon," Ginny grumbled. "Hermione _can't_ still be sleeping?"

"Her room was empty. Must've went out again." There was a distinct vocal fry in his tone.

Ginny still believed that her sister-in-law was hiding something, but her head ached far too much to address it at that moment. Instead, she slowly sipped her tea.

The husband and wife sat together for nearly thirty minutes, silently drinking cup after cup and nibbling teacakes. They often drank with Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander. After all, the strange couple was good company. Their home in the country was a mysterious wonderland full of bizarre creatures and magic that the Potters did not even know to be real, making every get-together more exciting than the last. Incidentally, the many distractions also made it quite easy to lose track of the number of drinks consumed.

Just as Ginny found the energy to clean up the teacake plate that she and Harry had cleared, a knock echoed throughout the kitchen. To her misfortune, it was not one knock, but incessant rapping that drilled through her skull.

"Will you _stop_ with that _infernal_ noise?" she barked, padding towards the foyer. As soon as she opened the door, she let out an audible gasp. "Ron?"

"Gin," he wheezed. A plum shopping bag was in his freckled hand. "You gotta let me see Hermione."

"Ron, it's really not a good time," the once-Weasley barked, massaging her temples. "Besides, Hermione's not here."

Ron furrowed his brow. "Not here? Where is she?"

"I don't _know_ , and frankly, I don't care."

Semicircles had become permanently embedded in Ron's facial features, but they were much more pronounced since the last time that Ginny had seen him. His hair was greasy and unwashed, leaving a shiny patch on his bald spot. Skin that was once pale was a rosy red and his breath reeked of firewhisky. Even if she _had_ been home, Hermione would not want to see him in such a state.

"I-I brought her chocolates." He lifted up the plum bag so his sister could get a better look. "Sugarplum's too. Expensive."

Ginny sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'll relay the message, Ron, but I can't promise it'll change anything. She's been—well, I don't think she intends to see you any time soon. Let's just put it that way."

"She would if she knew everything I'm doin' for her. I-I'm gonna get my old job back," Ron argued. "Just some rounds of potions and I'll be better and George'll let me start workin' for the shop again. She'll come home _then_ , don't ya think?"

"I don't _know_ , Ron. Look, it's not the best time right now. I'll give her the chocolates, okay?" She reached out for the bag, hoping that he would leave as soon as she accepted the apology gift for Hermione.

"Are you so hungover you don't even care about my marriage? Some sister you are," Ron spat, pushing past her, the bag still in hand. He walked past the foyer. "How long 'til she's back?"

Annoyed, the redheaded woman closed the door and stalked after her brother. As they entered the beige-and-ruby living room, Harry gave them both a curious look. He was leaning back in the armchair, his feet sprawled out on the matching ottoman as he nursed a second cup of tea.

"Ron?"

"Harry," the older redhead acknowledged, sitting on the sofa. "Do _you_ know where my wife is?"

Harry shook his head. "She left before we woke up."

Ron narrowed his eyes. "You two hit the bottle pretty hard last night, did you?"

"You're one to talk," Ginny jabbed.

"Fair, but _I_ can handle it," Ron bragged. He didn't take his eyes off Harry. "So she's just been off on her own then? Dangerous, considerin' who she is, don't ya think?"

"She's probably with Katie Bell. The two of them can take care of themselves." Harry took another long drink of tea. The messy-haired man was trying his best to converse despite his migraine, but the more questions that Ron asked, the more irritated he became.

" _That_ wench?" Ron scowled. "Malfoy, Katie Bell—seems like she never fails to keep the _worst_ company."

"I wouldn't equate Katie to Malfoy," Ginny grunted, standing over her sitting brother, hoping to intimidate him into leaving.

"He's a slick git. She's a loose barfly. Not much of a difference, if you think about it."

"How do you know she's a barfly?" Harry inquired.

"Seen her out and about," Ron mumbled, folding his arms. "Buyin' booze in the mornin', draggin' her feet about Diagon Alley, absolutely trolleyed. Any time there's a Ministry event of some sort, she can't even string her words together. Hell, she was at the Leaky just yesterday. Caught her rollin' in as I was leavin'—already sloshed, mind you. Stopped in to finish the job, I reckon."

Ginny knit her brows together. "Wait, Katie was at the Leaky yesterday?"

Ron nodded, seemingly sure of what he witnessed. "Some bloke on 'er arm. Looked quite a bit younger than her. Someone oughta tell that woman she ain't twenty anymore."

Ginny shot a glance at Harry. "She was with a man? Nobody else?"

"Just the two of 'em, from what I saw." Her brother twisted his face in disgust. "Prob'ly didn't want anyone to witness her pouncin' on some young thing like the deviant she is."

"Ron, are you sure it was her?" Harry said, carefully, understanding quite quickly that his wife was starting to make assumptions. "A lot of witches have—"

"It was her alright," Ron asserted. "Saw her not too long ago at some holiday gala Hermione dragged me to, hair the same kind of mess. Was at the bar the whole time—just a few seats down from me and—" He stopped, trying to determine how to best describe the woman he had been with. "—one of Hermione's colleagues. Different bloke with 'er that time, though. Loose barfly, like I said."

"What time?" Ginny asked.

"Well, there was some fancy gala for Christmas. Don't think you and Harry made it—"

"No, you idiot! What time was she at the Leaky?"

Ron frowned. "Round six thirty, I think. Wasn't too late. Why?"

"But that means—" Ginny stopped as Harry shook his head. She turned her attention back to her brother. "Ron, why don't you leave the bag here with us? Harry and I were just leaving to—" Her eyes were on her husband once more, begging him for an excuse.

"—visit Andromeda."

Ron did not look convinced, but nodded, nonetheless. "Yeah, sure. I uh—I suppose I'll stop by again another time." Defeat was laced in his words as he set the plum bag onto the coffee table. "Can you have a talk with Hermione? She shouldn't be hangin' around that Katie Bell. She's trouble."

"Oh, believe me, Ronald. We'll be having a chat." Ginny growled, walking him out.

As they reached the door, she gave him one last reassuring pat on the shoulder. Once he Disapparated, she waltzed back into the living room and faced Harry. Her nostrils flared much like that of a Hungarian Horntail. Harry knew the look well.

"She lied."

"She probably had a good reason for it, Gin. We used to lie all the time when you were in school," he noted. "Your mum _had_ to know, but she didn't nose her way into our business."

"And think about what we were _doing!_ "

"I mean, she's not doing _that,_ " he chuckled, fondly remembering many a visit to Ginny's room during her holiday break. "Is it really our business, anyway?"

Ginny folded her arms, not finding his laughter as cute as usual. "As long as she lives under our roof and she's still married to my brother, it _is_ our business."

"It's _Hermione_ ," he reminded her. "She probably just wanted to spend the day by herself and knew you'd weasel your way into following her if you thought she was alone. She used to do it to me and Ron all the time when we were kids. C'mon, Ginny. We _know_ her."

"Do we?" Ginny shot back. "I'm hungover as hell, Harry. This is the last thing I want to think about, but I mean she met with _Malfoy_. _Alone._ Maybe we don't know her as well as we think."

* * *

Too much had happened in a single week. As she reflected on her budding affair with Draco Malfoy, her separation from Ron, and her duties at work, the Minister for Magic was becoming increasingly uncertain about the task that was bestowed upon her. Yet, Narcissa Malfoy was staring at her, expectantly. While her hand hovered over the doorknob, her stomach was gnarling in every possible direction.

"Certainly you've opened a door before, Minister," the blonde woman intoned.

"Y-yes, of course." Hermione gulped and looked at Draco, who was standing a head taller than his mother. With a deep breath, she turned the knob and slowly opened the door. The brunette shivered and let out a nervous laugh. "Cold, isn't it? M-maybe there's a draft." In actuality, the Dark Magic was beginning to do its work.

"I don't feel a draft." Narcissa's blue eyes bore into her.

"Ah, that room always is a bit chilly," Draco cut in, his hands in his pockets. He stepped between his mother and his inamorata. "Shall we?"

Anxious, Hermione nodded and walked inside of the candlelit room. The feeling of dread was painfully familiar as she trod down the glowing aisles, her breath hitching as the shadowy feeling penetrated her deeper and deeper. Gleaming jewels, gold, and silver lined her way and the two pale Malfoys trailed behind her, one tense and the other quite keen.

"We must be close," Narcissa concluded, running her long, ethereal fingers over the glass protecting a sapphire-studded chalice. "I feel its presence. Undeniably my sister's magic."

Draco glanced at Hermione, concernedly. Her palms were pressed hard against her forehead as the numerous Dark artifacts assailed her, tearing apart her soul slowly and excruciatingly. Years of exposure to the Dark Arts had immunized him, but a veracious Gryffindor like herself stood no chance without the only cure. How desperate he was to comfort her.

"Here it is," the bushy-headed woman announced, tightly. The emerald-encrusted vase sparkled before them. "N-now to destroy it."

Narcissa pursed her lips. There was something callous about the way that she stood, her arms folded and her long, stiletto fingernails barely kissing her own elbows. The black-and-gold robes that she wore were a constant reminder that she was wealthier than most, and therefore, more valuable. "And have you any idea how to do that, Minister?"

"Well—I-I—"

"We don't have to do this today," Draco interjected, worry dancing in his features. "This is merely an assessment—"

"An assessment?" Narcissa hissed, hurriedly turning on her heel to face her heir. "An _assessment_ won't keep you out of Azkaban, Draco."

Hermione could hardly hear the arguing Malfoys. Odium and terror scraped at her very essence, pressing every other thought to the darkest, untouched corners of her mind. Her remedy was only inches away from her, yet she could not touch him.

"You do not even understand the magic, _do_ _you?_ " Narcissa seemed unaffected by the wickedness surrounding them. "There's no shame in it, Minister. This is, after all, magic that your organization has worked quite hard to oust. Its creators existed only to destroy and to protect itself, it must too destroy."

Draco watched his paramour with agony as she contorted her face in dread. She swallowed back an aggrieved sob.

"Ah, yes," Narcissa whispered, coolly. "You feel its power. I do too, Minister, yet I doubt I feel it as strongly as you. You see, only those that truly felt _hate_ towards Bellatrix—hate towards _Voldemort_ —only those misfortunate many will feel the full force of its magic. Enchantments such as this are quite old—ancient even. It took my darling Draco quite some time to discover all of its...history." She glanced at Draco from the corner of her eye. "I suspect he was unable to produce a Light spell strong enough to annihilate it, and thusly, he has brought _you_ here."

What felt like thousands of knives cut at Hermione's skin. Alas, she was too terrified to open her eyes and see the damage. Narcissa's words seemed to only worsen the pain, as with each slow enunciation, the knives cut deeper and deeper.

"A fitting candidate, he claims, and I must agree," the blonde continued. "A woman that's been tortured by Bellatrix. A woman who Voldemort wished to see dead. A woman whose friends were targeted by the both of them. A _Muggle-born._ Yes, Minister, you _do_ hate them. You hate them both and even the daughter they so quietly conceived. I only hope that he has had a good sense of judgment, because I _will_ not watch him go to Azkaban. Mark my words."

Hermione's knuckles were paler than usual from pressing hard against her forehead. The knives stabbed and sliced, white-hot and growingly impious. If she would simply look, she would know that it was all in her head. The vase played its malevolent games and it played them oh-so well.

"Granger, we don't have to do this today," Draco reassured her, his face strained. "It can wait until you're ready."

"It _cannot_ wait," Narcissa insisted. "My grandson needs his father, Draco Lucius! Until the vase is gone and the Ministry can no longer trace the Dark Magic to this house, you are in danger of imprisonment. If you are sent to Azkaban, he is alone—nothing more than an orphan. He would never forgive you, son. You know he wouldn't. And I wouldn't have the heart to ask it of him."

"She's clearly not ready," he said through gritted teeth. "We have to get her out of here, consequences be damned."

"It's not a risk you can be willing to take. What allegiance does she have to you? How do you know she isn't going to report this entire incident and come back with a team of Aurors? Do not rob your son of another parent, Draco. Don't you _dare_."

"She isn't strong enough!"

Suddenly, Hermione let out a bloodcurdling scream, her eyes stinging not from the tears but from Bellatrix Lestrange's terrible magic. Draco's voice was distorted and deep—otherworldly even.

"Destroy it." Narcissa demanded. "Destroy it now!"

The brunette fell onto the floor, curling into a ball as every ounce of love and happiness was robbed from her. If she could have sorted her thoughts, she may have equated it to a Dementor's Kiss.

"Hermione!"

Two strong arms pulled her close, and her eyes fluttered open.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	30. Joyfully

Comfort. At least, there was some sense of it. Pawing around led her cool fingers to a tall backing of both smooth and ruched fabric that was punctuated with what felt like tiny buttons. A myriad of soft throw pillows hugged her aching neck and legs. As she shifted to bury her face in one of them, the familiar scent of wood-fire and handsome musk entered her welcoming nostrils. The sofa was not her own, nor was it that of the Potters. That much, she was certain of. There were no lumps, no sticky candy wrappers, and incontestably no loose Gobstones.

Then, it began. Waves of pain crashed against the insides her skull, whispering bittersweet nothings of wickedness as she recoiled in surrender. Stifling a sob, she pressed her palms against her forehead. Agony cut through every thought she tried to form, and it was not long before the only thing that she could remember was the twisted sneer of Bellatrix Lestrange. Had she endured the Cruciatus Curse again? It certainly felt like it. With a soft whimper, she pulled her knees to her chest and waited for the merciful end.

After what seemed like hours, a hand brushed against her cheek. The soft caress of her fiery skin seemed impossible, but with it, the pain subsided. The empathetic soul was gone as quickly as they came, but with them, went the anguish. Footsteps headed in the opposite direction and she wanted nothing more than to beg for the tender fingers to touch her again.

"…didn't even try it yourself, did you?"

The voice was familiar, yet she could not place it. Her accent suggested that she was a noble of the Wizarding world—a pure-blood of the old ways.

"Bellatrix _tortured_ her. She _deserves_ to see it destroyed."

That voice, she knew. The touch that she felt was unmistakably his.

"And so many others do too, Draco, but you cannot see past your… _attachment_. You have blinded yourself to the potential cost."

"Some things are out of our control, Mother. It has taken me far too many years to realize as much."

"What about the implications? The Ministry will think you've colluded with her. You may just see family heirlooms, my son, but they see something far more sinister."

"She would never let me go to Azkaban."

"And if there is an investigation?" Her tone was but a hiss. "They will search your memories, Draco. They will not stop until they find the answers they seek."

"I'm an Occlumens. They will find nothing."

"But is _she?_ "

The Minister for Magic could have told him the answer. She most certainly was not. Of course, Draco knew that, but he decided against enlightening his mother.

"Don't you understand? The laws she and Shacklebolt fashioned would exempt her from overseeing your hearing. You'd be left to the judgment of the Wizengamot—and the Wizengamot _alone_. As you know, they don't take well to _our_ kind. A trial before them will end only one way, and I cannot bear to see Scorpius lose his father because of your sheer _senselessness._ "

"Earlier you were fearful of her overseeing my trial. Now you fear the opposite. I must say, I'm struggling to keep up."

"The circumstances have changed, Draco. Don't be daft."

There was a long pause.

"I saw the fire leave her eyes that day." His octave was low, no more than a whisper. "What I know of dead eyes does not come from Astoria. It comes from _that_ woman—from the look she gave me, begging me to do _something._ _Anything_ to save her from that _wretched_ animal you once called a sister. She haunts my dreams, my thoughts—day and night, I see _her_. Perhaps, that is the consequence of my inaction. That, I am willing to die with. But to know she never had her closure? To know that fire never sparked again? That feeling is worse than any curse I've ever endured, Unforgivable or not."

Hermione's eyes slowly opened, her heart racing as she took in Draco Malfoy's words. Every ounce of jealousy that she felt for Astoria had diminished. She was left only with a peculiar mix of gravity and joy.

"I know Bellatrix's magic well. This isn't just a fleeting romp."

"No, it is not."

Narcissa drew in a deep breath. "And how long have you felt this way?"

"Since school," he murmured. "It's been a long road."

"A road that leads to my brokenhearted son and her making amends with the Weasley half-wit. You _must_ know this is what the future brings. She is a politician and you are a Malfoy. She may care for you, Draco, but she _will_ choose him."

The words left a bad taste in Hermione's mouth. Ronald Weasley felt like a distant mistake after the long weekend. Perhaps, it was because he was.

"Not this time."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I cannot explain it, but I know."

"And what of Scorpius?"

"We'll deal with that as it comes."

It was silent again. Blood pounded in Hermione's ears as she waited for Narcissa's snarky reply. To her surprise, she offered only the cautionary sentiments of a worrying grandmother.

"Put him first, Draco. He needs you."

The Minister for Magic heard the shuffling of feet and she shut her eyes. The footfalls stopped. Hot breath washed over her as she felt an unfamiliar hand rest against her forehead. Her breathing hitched. She had been expecting Draco.

"I know you are awake, Minister." Narcissa Malfoy's tone fell somewhere between sugary sweet and bitterly venomous. "Whatever you do, _please_ keep my son safe. It seems he has _lost his mind._ "

Murmurings of a goodbye took place moments later and she blinked to see Draco swooping back into the room, concern filling each one of his usually-subtle crow's feet. She lifted her head stiffly, just enough for him to sit and coax it back into his lap.

"Do you remember anything?" he asked, combing his long, elegant fingers through her hair.

Pieces of the mysterious puzzle came together. The vase. The feeling of knives. Lady Malfoy's worry for her grandson. The floor. Strong arms. Worried grey eyes. Back to black.

"Some of it."

"You fainted," he explained. "I've been pumping you full of potions for the last two hours."

Suddenly, she was aware of the astringent flavor of healing potions. She crinkled her nose. "So I can taste."

"You weren't ready," he whispered. "I didn't know she was going to come here today. I should've—"

"I still want to do it."

Incredulity replaced the look of concern. "You're sure?"

"As an accomplished Horcrux hunter, I do believe I'm the most capable for the job." A knowing smile tugged at her mouth.

Grey pools were calculating. "I must agree. But now, you should rest."

Despite her stiff frame, she sat upright. "No, your mother is right. We have to get rid of it soon—before Harry's department acts on it. This week would be best. Humphries has been quite the innovator when it comes to tracking Dark Magic. It wouldn't surprise me if she has a full trace on every Malfoy address in existence."

"Merlin, Granger. Take a week to relax. You just faced some of the most ominous magic in all of England." He took her hand. "You need time to heal."

She glared at him and pulled away. "I need _you_ to stay out of Azkaban."

There was no use arguing. "So you have a plan."

"I think so," she replied. "But I'll need your help."

* * *

After Draco pressed her to take one final healing potion, Hermione felt strong enough to take the Floo back to the Potters'. The svelte wizard was skeptical of her plan. His face contorted in confusion as she explained it to him, but before she left, he had agreed to it. Days of preparation were ahead of them.

"Fancy seeing you turn up."

Hermione jumped. She was surprised to see her sister-in-law perched on the sofa, arms crossed and a violet shopping bag sitting neatly beside her. Irrefutable resentment masked her usually friendly, freckled face.

"Yes, felt a bit too tired to Apparate," the brunette replied, brushing the ashes from her emerald business dress. It was not a lie.

"Ron stopped by." Her cold tenor carried judgment.

"I'm glad I wasn't here, then."

Hermione crossed the room to retreat to the stairs, but Ginny looped the violet bag through her pinkie and blocked her path. With her brows knit together, the older witch tried to circle around her sister-in-law. It was to no avail. Ginny was once a Holyhead Harpy for a reason.

"He brought this for you." The redhead lifted the bag level to Hermione's umber eyes. She reached out to accept it, but Ginny jerked it just out of her reach. "But then he said something interesting."

Hermione was not in the mood to hear anything that came from her soon-to-be-ex-husband's mouth. Draco's freedom was on the line and she needed her rest to assure that they could carry out their plan by Wednesday afternoon. After wasting so many years on Ron, she owed her time to the only man that seemed to value her over all other things—especially when Phoebe Humphries could have him in Azkaban if he made one wrong move.

"You seem distracted," Ginny pointed out, icily. "Don't you want to know what my brother had to say?"

"Not really, no," Hermione grumbled.

"Well, he seems to think he saw Katie Bell yesterday—not with you, but with some bloke. Any reason that might be?"

Hermione opened her mouth to lie, but to her relief, she didn't have to.

"I fed Della, but she'll need to go out—" Harry reached the bottom of the stairs and laid his eyes on his wife and his best friend. "What's going on?"

"I was just telling Hermione that Ron brought her chocolates." She enunciated each word heavily, hissing the "T" in the final word. Dangling the bag closer, she added, "Enjoy."

Stomach roiling, Hermione snatched the bag and hurried upstairs, accidentally shouldering a perplexed Harry on her way past him. Only a few times had she endured a weekend as long and difficult, and while she hoped to have the Potters on her side, it seemed that she was burning that bridge much earlier than she intended.

* * *

Bloodshot eyes followed Madelyn MacBain as she trod towards the giant, jewel-encrusted desk. The tiny redhead waved an envelope bearing the silver seal of the Russian Ministry of Magic, hoping that Fyodor Sokolov brought news that may bring a smile to the Minister for Magic's face. Gob Strothers would have burned the letter if he knew of it. Madelyn had half a mind to do the very same, but after seeing her boss's fatigued stare, the woman seemed so much less threatening—a mere broken witch, searching for herself in the cracks.

"From Fyodor?" she confirmed, wistfully, turning the envelope in her hands. "How delightful."

The words sounded distant. Cuffing her hands behind her back, Madelyn watched intently as her boss ripped into the envelope. Glumness seemed to wash away for a moment as her dark eyes ran across each line of writing.

"How kind of him to check in," the Minister said, once finished.

"Did he say anything interesting?" Curiosity got the best of Madelyn after everything that Gob had told her.

To her surprise, the Minister handed her the letter with a shrug. "Assuring that all is well."

A quick read confirmed what she had said. There was not a suspicious word written. "And is it?"

Hermione closed her eyes, desperately hoping that entrusting her assistant would not be a fatal misstep. "Madelyn, no one can know of the favor I'm about to ask you. If anyone is to ask, the documents you are requesting are for a friend of yours—a friend too nervous to come in and retrieve them himself. Say it back to me."

"They're for a friend of mine," she repeated, entirely unsure what she was getting herself into. "He was too nervous to pick them up himself."

Satisfied, the Minister nodded. "Very good. If they ask any questions, err on the side of ignorance."

"Sure…" Growing increasingly skeptical, Madelyn finally asked the obvious question. "So what documents am I requesting?"

The brunette woman's red eyes bore into hers. "Divorce papers."

* * *

Fingers as fair as snow raked through hair that was, possibly, even fairer. Uncertain mercury eyes found earthen and for the first time in an eternity, they were filled with doubt.

"I haven't seen you this nervous since we were in school," a soft, feminine voice quipped.

The blond clenched his jaw. There was no denying that his nerves were getting the best of him. Years of practicing high-level enchantments should have prepared him for what he was about to do, but he had avoided the spell at hand for a reason. Unforgivable Curses were easy enough for a wizard of his skill. This, however, was magic he was not sure he could perform.

"Draco, you're one of the most powerful wizards I know. This will be easy for you, I promise."

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "One of the most powerful wizards you know? You sure know how to appeal to the Slytherin in me, don't you, Granger?"

"Well, it's the truth. If I could learn this in my fifth year, I'm sure you can learn it now."

The smirk disappeared. He had nearly forgotten that Potter had taught her and a number of others the charm when they were so young. When they shared their N.E.W.T. year together, the magic had impressed him, but now that they were so much older, he was simply embarrassed that he had never bothered to learn it himself.

"Okay, first thing's first." Her eyes were focused on his as she clasped onto his wand hand. "Think of the happiest memory you can."

Draco took a shaky breath. It was this exact instruction that caused him to stray from ever learning the spell. Fishing through his formative years left him with few happy memories, none of them seeming strong enough to channel into the advanced magic. He moved onto recollections of school, wincing as he thought of Voldemort and his aunt. Finally, after so much darkness, he found _her_.

"I—I think I might have something."

Hermione beamed at him. "Okay, good. Now close your eyes. Focus as hard as you can on that memory."

No one particular memory stood out. Frowning, he leafed past the insults, the heartbreak, the hexes. A handful of joyous moments lay before him: their first kiss, exchanging their virginities, the first time she admitted her feelings for him.

"Just one?"

She frowned. "Yes. Otherwise, you won't have the focus you need."

Choosing the latter, he found himself grinning from ear-to-ear. The youthful face of the woman he cared so deeply for was staring back at him, muttering things his teenage self had only dreamed could ever come from her pretty mouth. Angelic curls framed her narrow shoulders as she nervously handpicked each glasslike word. He was melting in her dark eyes. It was the perfect moment.

Then, suddenly, Ronald Weasley's face appeared as a hideous interruption. His scowl replaced her beautiful monologue and the _Daily Prophet_ headline featuring their marriage flashed before him. Jealousy consumed his very being, and he abandoned the memory.

"It's okay. It's normal to take awhile to pick one," Hermione encouraged him, watching his expression alter with the change of mood. She squeezed his hand. "Just try again."

So he did. The birth of his son came to mind. It was a strong memory, a memory that he was sure would work.

"Have you found it?"

He nodded. "I think so."

"Perfect!" Hermione stood next to him and raised her wand. "Now, straight out. The movement is swift."

Draco practiced the motion. Comprehending it well enough, he urged her to continue.

"Close your eyes, think of the memory. Think _hard_." As she snapped her eyes shut, Draco could not help but wonder what memory she chose. "Then, the motion. Straight out."

Without a word, her otter shot from the end of her wand. It circled Draco's head, an unfamiliar phantom to a man whose advanced magic was so different from the peculiar Light spell. Entranced, he reached out to touch it.

"You can perform it nonverbally."

Hermione nodded as the otter dissipated into the air. "Lots of practice. We used to send them out for the Order. It became clear to me that there may be a time I would need to cast it while I was mute." She studied him for a moment. "You, however, should start with the spoken charm. _Expecto Patronum!_ "

The otter burst forth again. Draco ogled at her, in awe of her ability to cast the charm two times in a row, especially after her run-in with Bellatrix's malevolent vase just the day before. Many witches and wizards could never learn it, let alone have the power to perform the spell twice without flaw.

"Close your eyes. Think of the memory."

He focused on his son's birth. The crying. A fatigued Astoria grinning down at his pink face. The feeling that swelled in his chest when he first held him.

"I have it."

"Good. Now, the motion, and the incantation."

The swift motion was the easy part. As he prepared to utter the words, his mind was flooded with somber memoirs that followed the birth.

_"The son of Voldemort."_

_"A force of evil—just like all the Malfoys."_

_"The boy is destined for darkness."_

Scrunching his face, he tried to come back to the good, but it was tainted. Ugly words poisoned the memory and even without experience with the spell, he knew that the Patronus would not emerge from his wand. Hermione's wordless otter suddenly seemed even more remarkable.

He opened his eyes and tucked his wand into the pocket of his black trousers. "I can't."

After shooting him a sad glance, Hermione replied, "I want to show you something."

Curious, Draco watched her as she summoned her dragon-skin purse. She reached inside and fished around for a moment before pulling out a thick stack of parchments that appeared to be charmed together. The raised seal of the Ministry of Magic was clear as day.

"Ministry paperwork? Is this your subtle way of asking me to be your new secretary?"

"No." With a roll of her eyes, she proffered him the documents. "Just look."

"Shame. I'd look good in a pencil skirt." He reached out to accept them, skeptical as his eyes flitted downward to read the text. It only took the first few lines for him to know what the rest of the papers said. Heart thudding in his chest, he met her gaze. "You're serious about this."

"You didn't believe me before?" Her voice was small.

"Sure," he mumbled, "but I didn't know when you'd actually do it. Took you long enough to accept all of this." He gestured each of them.

The hurt was evident in her features. "There was no sense in putting it off. Maybe this is all far too late in life, and for what it's worth, I'd go back and change things if I could. But we've learned the hard way that time isn't meant to be played with. Ron hasn't signed them yet, but I—"

Draco held up a hand to stop her. "I don't care about Weasley. He won't be a problem in the end."

A watery smile was on her face. "The point is: I choose you, Draco. I always should have." Tears streaked her cheeks. "I've wasted so much time, and for that, I can't tell you how sorry I am. Just know that this—" She tapped the paperwork in his hands. "—will be official, consequences be damned."

It was quiet for a moment as Draco drank in her words. Regrets ran deep between the both of them, but hearing hers only made him remember why he sought her out in the first place. He had lent an ear until it was safe to ask her for the thorny favor, and though he always knew that it would all be worth it, it had never felt more genuine than it did as her apology fell from her pink lips. The divorce was no longer just desperate words from a libidinous woman. It was real, and it was imminent. He had _won_.

"I think I'd like to try the charm again," he said, setting aside the stack of parchments.

Hermione nodded, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Sure. Go on, then."

The witch's eyes were still brimming with tears as he pulled out his wand. With a thick breath, he shouted the incantation he had feared ever since he was only a teenager. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A flash of blue light shot from the end of the wand and before Hermione knew it, an otter all too like her own was dancing around her.


	31. Studiously

Parchments and tomes held the answers to all things. At least, this was Hermione Granger's belief, and the exact reason why she was surrounded by dozens of thick law books and documents piled so high that she nearly scraped her nose reaching past them. To most, it would look like she was working diligently. In actuality, she had let most of her work slip through the cracks. There were much more pressing matters.

Her unkempt hair was even bigger than usual, tangled and darting in all directions as she hunched over text after text. Each law she studied led to one dreadful conclusion: Draco Malfoy could be sent to Azkaban. In fact, she was shocked that he had not been charged already.

" _Ministry officials may use any means necessary to assure that Dark Magic is avoided and/or properly regulated,_ " one particularly hefty law book read.

Hermione had cursed to herself. She hoped that Phoebe Humphries's absolute disregard for non-offenders' privacy would be her undoing. Sadly, the wretched Auror seemed to know this area of the law better than she did. The Minister blamed herself. She should have thought of her teenage sweetheart as soon as she was elected into office. He had, after all, told her that the Ministry of Magic had a bias against him, and as the years went on, it proved to be true. The Malfoys had a long, troubling history when it came to magical law, and everyone seemed to hold it against Draco and all those that associated with him.

She had spent years convincing herself that the world had come together after the Second Wizarding War. Some witches and wizards were tunnel-minded, but she was positive that the majority had forgiven what youths like Draco Malfoy had to do during that trying time. To her dismay, her perception was far from the truth.

_"He's a known Death Eater!" Gob Strothers exclaimed. "Good Godric, Granger! Do you have any idea what the public must think of the Ministry right now?"_

_"He's an old friend. I published my book and he wanted to congratulate me. If the public can't trust my judgment when it comes to Draco Malfoy, maybe the public is even stupider than I thought. A true feat, honestly!"_

_Gob scowled. "What am I going to do with you? You're absolutely impossible!"_

_"Is it me, or is it them? Nobody knows more about Draco Malfoy's crimes than I do, but I trust him, unconditionally."_

_"Perhaps you do, and the public doesn't doubt that. What they doubt is that you have their best interest in mind. How are they to know you aren't colluding with other Dark wizards if you're meeting at least one of them in a place as public as the Leaky ruddy Cauldron?"_

_She clenched her jaw. "So we prepare for some damage control. So be it. But let me make one thing clear to you, Strothers: if you_ dare _doubt his allegiance, there is no place for you in the Ministry of Magic. I_ guarantee _he's done more for the greater good than you could even comprehend."_

Gob would have a conniption if he knew what she was doing in her office. Sighing at the thought, she closed the useless book and charmed it back to the shelf from whence it came. She did not have time to lament.

"There has to be _something,_ " she grumbled under her breath, leafing through another book that was just as great, if not greater, in size.

Few laws lacked loopholes. After patching together poorly-written bans, acts, and decrees leftover from a corrupt government, she was a bit of an expert in the area. In the grand, entangled web known as magical law, the escape clause was legislated somewhere. The thoughtful witch simply had to know where to look.

" _The Wizengamot may choose to excuse the sitting Minister for Magic from a trial if there is evidence of their direct involvement in said trial._ " Her breathing hitched as she read the passage aloud. She knew of the law, for she had drafted it herself. Surely, she had not written out her own loophole. " _Effective under Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger - 2020._ "

At the time, the law seemed pertinent. Kingsley Shacklebolt had led the Ministry of Magic down a just path, slowly removing all possibility of corruption in the organization. With the desire to follow in his footsteps, Hermione made a law that would affect her and all future Ministers. Unknowingly, she had also put her beau in harm's way. Narcissa Malfoy had been right to worry.

"There must be something else," she whispered.

Most legislation in the Wizarding world had an average of three loopholes. Dark artifact law couldn't be any different.

Five memos flew into her office, one right after the other, and as the work piled up, she tucked it away. Nothing was more important than the man who shared her Patronus.

* * *

The Potters did not share the same feelings when it came to their sister-in-law staying with them. Harry quite liked seeing Hermione in a wonderful mood, but his wife found it suspicious, often leading to awkward meals and uncomfortable questions. Blaming Ginny's attitude on work stress had become second nature, though he knew that his best friend was too intelligent to buy it. More than once, he found himself meeting her gaze and mouthing, "I'm sorry".

Frankly, the former Weasley's leeriness was warranted. Hermione most certainly had been fibbing when she claimed to have gone to Diagon Alley with Katie Bell; Harry confirmed as much when he overheard Katie talking with Amelia Brown in the Third Level corridor. His fellow Gryffindor was with a man, just like Ron had said, that she described as " _so_ tall and _much_ more handsome than Gil". He was not sure who Gil was, but he had a feeling that she and Amelia had discussed him before.

Harry chose not to mention this to his wife when they sat down for dinner on Monday evening. Instead, he smiled at her and asked, "How's your article coming along, dear?"

Ginny, who was surrounded by parchment and splattered with black ink, gave him a dark look. "I don't want to talk about it." Quill in one hand and potato-packed spoon in the other, she was the embodiment of exasperation.

"Alright then," he replied, turning to his big-haired friend. "What about you, Hermione? Good day at work? Didn't see you today."

"Erm—it was fine, I suppose," she murmured, her chin in her hand as she pushed a pile of mushy peas around on her plate. "And yourself?"

Harry stabbed a piece of pot roast. "Oh, it was fine. Got a tip-off that Geraldine Bulstrode is in Cornwall, so a team of us are packing up early tomorrow and heading out that way. Hopefully, it isn't another dead-end. She's been on the run for nearly a year so I'd like to get this one nipped in the bum."

Geraldine Bulstrode had been found teaching Unforgivable Curses to underage witches and wizards, likely with the help of other former supporters of Voldemort, but his department had been unable to incriminate anyone else. If he knew anything about Geraldine Bulstrode, she would not give anyone up very easily. With low crime rates, the woman was one of the most wanted in the Wizarding world, and he hoped the charges that she faced would encourage her to give him the names of her associates.

Perking up a bit, Hermione inquired, "Who'll be going? Your usual team?"

"Bit of a mix, actually. Humphries'll be left in charge." Harry gave her a knowing look. "She's been warned not to do anything stupid."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Hermione mumbled, her spirits swiftly dropping once more.

"She's not _that_ bad," Harry insisted. "Just headstrong. She has talent—more than I can say for a lot of the Aurors in that office."

Hermione looked deep in thought for a moment. "You know, I _have_ heard she's quite an innovator when it comes to tracking Dark Magic. Was always curious how that worked."

Harry saw his wife's focus swap from the parchment in front of her to Hermione. He knew the look on her face and he knew it well. She thought that their sister-in-law was up to something. It was hard not to tell her she was being silly, but he figured that it was better to avoid the argument and pretend he didn't notice her.

"From what I understand, it's pretty similar to the way the Trace works. She's just figured out a way to make it work for land rather than individuals," he explained. "No idea how she managed it, but if any strong Dark Magic—an Unforgivable, for example—is cast within the set perimeter, a memo comes to the office. Our department confirms it wasn't an extenuating circumstance and a team is sent to apprehend. She has trackers on entire _forests_ where high-profile criminals have been reported to be hiding. That's how we caught Galbert Blacktree. We had our suspicions about the woods in Scotland after Norman Belt was caught up there, and our hunch was right. Those tracking methods of hers are bloody brilliant. Never would've caught him without them."

Ginny was glaring at him, seemingly upset that he gave Hermione so much information. Nevertheless, she was his best friend, his sister-in-law, and the Minister for Magic. The woman was more than qualified.

Hermione did not seem to notice as the redhead's eyes drilled into her. "So she only tracks areas where there have been known criminals?"

Harry shook his head. "Known criminals, likely criminals, possible victims—she tracks anyplace she thinks may need tracking. The Parkinson estate has been being tracked since we confirmed she could legally do it. She figures it's better safe than sorry, and honestly, when it comes to Dark Magic, I agree."

His best friend nodded slowly before excusing herself. Unsure what he said to upset her, Harry turned to his wife, only to be met with a glower. Part of him was ecstatic to be leaving the next morning. Two confusing women under one roof was starting to drain him of all his energy.

* * *

The guest room had begun to feel like home. A four-poster bed draped in clover green quite reminded her of the man that she had often been visiting, though she knew it was a testament to the Holyhead Harpies; the bright yellow pillowcases served as an indication.

She cast a quick Do Not Disturb Charm and began unloading her bottomless bag. Texts that she had borrowed from the Ministry of Magic quickly piled atop the small, ash bureau that was pleasantly placed in the corner of the spare room. After leafing through the entire library in her office, she had sent her assistant to retrieve more books from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Clutching the final tome, she noticed the divorce papers. A small smile played at her lips as she pulled them out. The papers symbolized a world she never knew she could have—the world she needed. As a life of mental abuse ended, a new life would begin. She had to find a solution to their problem, or else the entire future that she was planning would come crashing down upon them.

Part of her wondered if she would be sad once the divorce papers were actually in her hands, but as she fingered them, quietly, she could only think of what they represented. It would be the end of a dismal era of unhappiness. She only hoped that their children would grow to accept her rekindled romance.

Forgetting about the children proved to be disturbingly effortless with the vase on her mind. Rose had voiced her opinion about her father's alcoholism, but Hermione doubted that she would be quick to accept her fast-paced relationship with Draco Malfoy. Hugo certainly would have a problem with it. Ron had spent so many years telling him how truly evil the Malfoys were and the young boy believed every word.

She had no desire to keep her children from their father, but she did know they would have to live with her. Inevitably, that meant they would live with Draco too. Maybe not at first, but in the long run, they would become a mixed family. How would Draco's son feel? The boy seemed lovely, yet circumstances would hardly be the same. She assumed that he, like her children, would hardly take the news lightly.

Her stomach ached as she thought through the logistics of her future with Draco. Alas, she had to take the relationship slowly. Accepting the spark between them had taken her quite a lot of time, and as soon as she did, Bellatrix Lestrange's vase had been thrust into her lap. Frustrated, she wondered why Pansy and Theodore could not have just gotten rid of the vase themselves. If Draco had never been involved with it, the two of them would not have a worry in the world.

On the other hand, maybe he would not have contacted her at all. His claims of friendship and praise had been a ploy to ask her for the very favor that tormented them. He was simply clever enough to wait until the right time.

The thought nudged her into reality. With a heavy sigh, she set the divorce papers aside and opened one of the large tomes.

* * *

Practice makes perfect. At least, that was what the blond wizard kept telling himself. While he had been successful in casting his Patronus, he found it much harder to do when he was alone. As yet another pathetic wisp of blue sputtered out from the tip of his wand, he was interrupted by a small knock on his front door. It was far too late for visitors, meaning it was either Aurors coming to whisk him away, or the woman helping him avoid that very fate.

He tucked his wand into his sleeve, sauntered to the front door, and opened it. A deep breath of relief funneled from his lungs before he invited the witch inside. He gave her a chaste kiss. "You ought to start Apparating inside. It's been cold."

"I'll keep that in mind," the brunette woman murmured. "I have some news."

Eyebrow cocked, he hung her jacket for her. "Yeah? It must be important to show up so late."

"I couldn't sleep, so I left after Ginny and Harry went to bed. I'm still trying to find a loophole, and we will likely need it. Harry explained Humphries's Dark Magic tracking to me and if it works the way he claims it does, we won't stand a chance. Not if we stick with the current plan."

Ever since Draco had first discovered his cruel aunt's vase, he knew that it would have to be destroyed. The magic was unlike that of the other purported Dark artifacts in his home, and he was unsure what would happen when the black enchantments were finally broken. If it was anything like the Horcruxes that his courter spoke of, he dreaded to find out.

"Elaborate, Granger."

He pulled a chair out for her and she muttered her thanks. Steepling her fingers, she continued to explain. "I was right. They can track Dark Magic throughout entire areas. Harry confirmed they've been tracking the magic used at the Parkinson estate. If they're watching the Parkinsons, we have to assume they're watching _you._ "

"You're talking about two different things, Granger. Are they watching _me_ or are they watching the cottage?"

"You know what I meant."

Draco rested his chin in his palm. "Excuse me if I'm missing something, but if they're watching the address and don't have the Trace on my wand, can't we just do it somewhere else?"

"You're exactly right, but I do worry about transporting it. That may be just as dangerous. We couldn't take it very far, and we would have to find someplace that the Auror Department definitely would not be tracking. Plus, we can't be seen."

"I cast a very good Disillusionment Charm."

"But where? It can't be just _anywhere_. They know every Malfoy-owned address, Draco, I promise you. Even that house in France that you think is such a secret," Hermione warned. "We can't very well do it at the Godric's Hollow house with Ron there. Harry and Ginny's is out of the question. It will have to be somewhere remote. The woods. And even that is questionable, considering Harry told me they had a track on an entire forest in Scotland to find Galbert Blacktree."

"Not very many supporters of the Dark Arts, anymore. No one that Potter would care about, anyway. Avoiding them may not be as tricky as you'd think." He rubbed his chin. "I might be able to wrestle some information out of Pansy and Theo. They still seem to be in those circles. You spent a lot of time in the woods during your Horcrux hunting days, didn't you?"

She nodded, though she still looked unsure. "This is all really risky, with or without help from the Notts."

"And the alternative isn't?" he challenged.

She closed her dark eyes. "I just—I can't help but wonder what would happen if we didn't destroy it at all. It hasn't raised a signal yet. Maybe it's as easy as taking it somewhere and wiping your hands clean of it." The words were shaky. Even as they fell from her lips, she did not believe them. "Would it be so bad? If it were somewhere that nobody would ever find it again?"

When Draco had agreed to take the vase, he had Hermione in mind. Never did he want to make her life harder, especially considering her falling out with her husband. The Malfoy man had spent so much time collecting Dark artifacts that another hardly seemed like an inconvenience. Admittedly, he knew the magic was much more intense than usual. Yet, it called to him. Its evil had to be the last of Bellatrix's malicious legacy, and there was one person he knew that would love to see it put to its end.

_The Notts lived in the type of home Pansy fantasized about. When she and Draco were many years younger, she would chatter in his ear until she went hoarse, asking him if he would one day buy her a mansion in the countryside. When he was a naïve, second-year boy, he had promised her that he would._

_Draco's taste in women had changed, but Pansy's taste in real estate had not. The gargantuan estate was quite similar to her parents', standing four stories high with a blooming courtyard in the back. Dozens of house-elves in matching uniforms were flitting around the front garden, a few of them stopping to ask if they could help him. He shook his head and knocked on the door._

_The door swung open and he was greeted by an elderly house-elf. "Master Malfoy!"_

_Draco was surprised that Pansy's childhood elf was still alive, but greeted him, nonetheless. "Good morning, Galdron. Are Pansy and Theodore home?"_

_Galdron nodded, his bat-like ears bobbing as he beckoned the blond visitor inside. Draco's shoes sounded against the white marble floor as he padded down the never-ending hallway. Crystal chandeliers caught the sunlight, nearly blinding him as he followed the elderly elf for what seemed like ages. Once they finally reached the end of the hall, he was met by two familiar faces._

_"Draco, darling!" Pansy chided, closing_ Witch Weekly _. She stood and sauntered towards him, her arms outstretched and Theo in tow. After planting two kisses to his cheeks, she cooed, "I'm so glad you were able to make it."_

_"Yes, we do appreciate you coming on such short notice," Theo drawled, hugging the Malfoy he knew so well. He lowered his voice to whisper in his ear. "Pansy was devastated when the cat died. You know how she shrieks when she's upset."_

_"Anything for my old friends," Draco said with a small nod. He looked around the grand room, which was over-decorated in sapphire, brass, and dark wood. "I love what you've done with the place."_

_Pansy was beaming. "Theo and I put a lot of time into making it our dream home. A Hufflepuff owned it before us. Yellow everywhere." She scrunched her nose._

_Draco chuckled. "Hardly sufficient for two Slytherins."_

_"We stayed with my parents until that issue was...resolved," she elucidated. "Anyway, can I have Galdron get you anything? Wine? Water? Firewhisky?"_

_He held up his hand and shook his head. "I'm fine, Pansy. Thank you, though."_

_Theo met his gaze with fatigued, deep-set eyes. "Pansy, I'm going to take Draco to see the artifact now. Your assistance won't be needed."_

_Her face fell. "Right to business then. I'll erm—I'll be in the courtyard." Sniffles could be heard as she hurried out of the room, clearly still upset by the incident with her beloved feline._

_"Follow me," Theo commanded, leading Draco back down the long hallway. It forked and at the far end, opened into a grand ballroom of black-and-white nobility. The pair trod inside, their footsteps echoing under the perfected acoustics. "Used to be her favorite room. She hasn't set foot in here since it happened."_

_"Shame," Draco murmured, remembering a time when a much younger Pansy raved about wanting a ballroom to host parties for the pure-blood society she was taught to treasure. His eyes found a white fireplace in the corner. Atop it, was a deep mantelpiece and an object covered by a puffy, camel-colored blanket. "That must be it."_

_Theo nodded. "It made me feel quite a nasty way the first time I got near it. I don't spend enough time in this room to notice it much anymore, but I must warn you, it'll start to get to you the closer you get."_

_Familiar with Dark artifacts, Draco simply nodded and took a few steps forward. Theo had been correct. The nearer he tread, the worse he felt. As a stomachache and a migraine assaulted him simultaneously, he found it increasingly challenging to focus on the issue at hand._

_"You feel it," Theo said, wincing. "I have no idea why Pansy brought it here in the first place. She doesn't seem to feel much coming from it. Blinded by her desires, I think."_

_Draco stopped, wishing not to get any closer. He rubbed his temples. "Pansy has spent a lot of time around objects like this in her parents' home. I imagine she thought what most collectors think—that the feeling will become less noticeable. In most cases, it does."_

_Theo loosened his collar and emitted a small choking noise. "I've been around Dark artifacts since I was a boy too, Malfoy. This is something different. There is a difference between Darkness and true evil."_

_Pressing his palms against his shut eyes, Draco nodded in agreement. "You're right, Nott. This is ruthless magic. Darker than anything I've come across since the war."_

_Drawing in a deep breath, Theo slowly waved his wand and the blanket levitated away from the vase, dropping onto the floor, quietly. Evil enchantments clawed at Draco's skull and he slowly opened his dark grey orbs. When he finally set his gaze upon the relic, his heart lurched into his throat._

_"You found this in Knockturn Alley?" he demanded, ignoring his urge to choke the man he knew so well. Violent thoughts were common when exposed to Dark artifacts, but never had Draco felt such compulsions so strongly._

_"Pansy did."_

_"This—I've seen it before," Draco breathed. He cradled his head and swallowed thickly. "In Bellatrix's house."_

_"Somehow that isn't much of a surprise," Theo mumbled, stepping away from the object. "A family heirloom, then."_

_Draco gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge the pain or the wicked thoughts. "Something like that."_

_His mind was brought back to the night at Malfoy Manor, when the woman he came to adore was writhing in pain by his aunt's hand. As his heart pounded angrily in his chest, he realized that he had to destroy the object. Bellatrix's Dark Magic had survived her death, and as he ached to see the brunette Gryffindor each and every day, he knew that it was the perfect opportunity to do just that. Finally, he could do something worthy of her. He would give her the gift of Bellatrix's final destruction, a gift no one else could give, especially not the likes of Ronald Weasley. The Lestrange woman was dead, but she was not gone until that despicable vase was no more._

_"Look, if it's too much, I'll drop it off at Borgin and Burkes and they can figure it out."_

_His mind on a familiar pair of umber eyes, Draco shook his head. "No. I'll take it."_

"Draco?" Hermione asked, brimming with tears. "What do you think, then? We'll drop it in the ocean. Let the sea eat away at it."

The memory seemed so long ago. He had not intended to put himself or Hermione in danger, and as he recalled the day with the Pansy and Theodore, he finally knew just how naïve he had been. If he had refused to take it from the Notts that day, neither of them would have been involved.

Draco did not stop to think about abiding by the laws surrounding Dark artifacts. He knew plenty of respectable people with family heirlooms, both Dark and not. Bringing one more home had not seemed consequential at the time.

Still, that would not have been what Hermione would have wanted. No matter what she said, she wanted the artifact to be destroyed. Draco knew the woman better than he knew himself sometimes, and she would not be able to stand the fact that a piece of Bellatrix Lestrange's depravity still lingered.

"That's hardly a suggestion I expected from the Gryffindor in the room."

Her dark eyes shone brightly as tears prickled them. "I already lost you once, Draco. I don't—I don't think I can do it again."

"If we didn't do away with it, you would regret it every day, Granger. It isn't an option, and you know it." It was a hard thing to say. He was not prepared to face Azkaban. Alas, he had kept the object intact to give her the closure she needed. Destruction was the only way. "Besides, I've shoveled a lot of time into this bloody Patronus."

Hermione's was looking everywhere but at him. "Then, I suppose I have a lot more research to get to."

"It'll be fine." He reached out for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Nobody in that Auror Office has half the sense that we do."

She swallowed hard. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

The Auror Office was bustling, despite the early hour. With packed bags and determination in their stance, the Aurors that were going to Cornwall stood before the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Many of them had not been on an important mission in months, and they were itching to be part of the action.

"Everyone standing here has something to offer on this mission," their bespectacled leader boomed, chest puffed out and hands clasped behind his back. "Beatty, you're the best negotiator I have. We'll need you once she's apprehended. Bulstrode isn't known to go quietly."

"I won't disappoint you, Mr. Potter, sir!" Beatty shouted, giving him a deep nod.

"Vox, we'll need that wandwork of yours," Harry added, stopping in front of a frowning blond. "I know you're probably tired from the last few missions, but we're depending on you."

"I don't believe in getting _tired_ , sir."

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "That's what I like to hear, mate." His green eyes moved down the small line of Aurors. "Duncan, Durden—I'll need you flanking. Bulstrode is going to make a run for it, and we need able wands at every exit. We have no idea how big this place is, but if there's Bulstrode gold behind it, it's safe to assume it's far from small."

The group of four had perfect posture. Their coworkers, however, were less than thrilled. Several pairs of jealous eyes followed the Cornwall-bound team as they grabbed onto an old handbag and spun away with the pull of the Portkey.

"Bloody Potter," Melman spat, crossing his arms. Steam billowed from a cup of coffee on his desk, clouding his features. "As if _Duncan_ should be going and _I_ shouldn't be."

"I'm okay with not going," Primpernelle said with a shrug. Using the large hand mirror that he kept on his desk, he fussed with his impeccable hair. "I just don't want to be sent on all of those silly _errands_ Humphries volunteers us for when the big boss is out."

"Rumor is Potter had a talk with her," Fetch chuckled. "My father heard whispers in the Misuse Department. One toe out of line, and she's gonna get shit-canned. I bet we're in for a week of desk work 'til the others get back."

Melman scoffed and took a swig of black coffee. "No way Humphries will go for that."

Suddenly, the door opened, and the woman in question was staring them all down. Her face was stern. For a moment, Melman thought that she might have heard them.

"Potter gone already?"

"You just missed him," Primpernelle answered, sitting upright. He had already been scolded a number of times for spending too much time in front of the mirror at work. "You're a bit late."

"Watch it, Primpernelle," Humphries growled. She put her hand on her hip. "Besides, I was busy. We have something to take care of. Could lead to a bit of a scandal, so we need to handle it carefully. I'll need all wands at the ready."

"What? Did another underage witch cast a cleaning charm?" Melman asked, only half-kidding.

Humphries shook her head, making a mental note to hex him if he took that tone with her again. "Ronald Weasley has been caught having a bit of a drunken duel."

"The Minister's husband?" Primpernelle asked, eyes wide. "At this hour? With _who?_ "

A smirk had grown on her face, almost like she was excited to arrest him. Perhaps, it was because she was. It was no secret that she had been obsessing over the Minister for Magic for months. She would pounce on any opportunity to embarrass the woman. "His brother."

* * *

The Minister for Magic was buried in books once again. After a short argument with her assistant, she was able to cancel her meetings for the day, and she was not going to waste any time. A mess of broken quills, ink, parchment, and tomes had led her to one hypothesis: if there were more loopholes, they were incredibly elusive.

Nevertheless, she kept looking. Book after book had proven to be unhelpful, but there was no turning back. She had chosen the blond wizard, and if they were going to have a future together, she had to keep him out of Azkaban. The beautiful man did not deserve to be in such a dismal place, and selfishly, her heart could not take it if he was.

Only when she opened a law book called _Decrees of Dark Magick_ did she find more answers.

**GUIDELINES TO OWNING DARK ARTIFACTS**

**The ownership of a Dark artifact, no matter intent, is a felonious act, unless:**

**a. Ownership is a temporary circumstance formally arranged by the Ministry of Magic.**

**b. Ownership is for educational purposes and has been formally registered with the Ministry of Magic.**

**c. The item is a family heirloom that has been formally registered with the Ministry of Magic.**

Hermione read the guidelines many times over, followed by the dozens of clauses. While she may have been able to forge the paperwork for one item, there would be no way to do so for the hundreds of artifacts in his cottage. Another loophole had closed.

* * *

Blood had crusted at the corners of his pale lips and beneath his freckled nose. A black eye was a stark contrast to his pallor, and as he sat across from Phoebe Humphries, the redhead realized just how much trouble his brother was in.

"Water?" she asked, raising the pitcher on the table. Two goblets were beside it.

He merely stared daggers in her direction.

"Alright then." She poured herself a goblet full and took a sip. "Do you need a healer, Mr. Weasley? Your eye is blacker than it looked an hour ago."

"I'm fine," George grunted. He gestured the warped flesh where his ear had once been. "I was in the war, not that you'd know anything about that."

The Humphries family had defected to the United States at the beginning of the Second Wizarding War. It was no secret, but a blush still made its way to her cheeks.

"Very well. I'll get right to the point, then." She sucked in a breath. "Mr. Weasley, it's a bit early this morning for your brother to be intoxicated, don't you think?" Sharp blue eyes bore into him as she leaned back. "Though, he has a bit of a reputation for that, doesn't he?"

George's posture stiffened. "My brother's reputation is none of your business."

Humphries smirked, realizing that she had struck a sore spot. "Ah, but with a history with this kind of thing, it will be hard for him to defend himself. You don't have to protect him, Mr. Weasley. He _attacked_ you. In your place of work, no less! You must've been just _terrified._ "

"He's my brother," he retorted, folding his arms. "I'm not trying to get him into any trouble."

She clicked her tongue. "Unfortunately, Mr. Weasley, that is a bit out of your hands. Drunk dueling is quite a nasty offense and the squib is a firsthand witness. You're lucky you came out of it with just a bit of blood and bruising. He could have killed you."

George rolled his eyes. "You Ministry people always overreact. This is between me and him."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Weasley, but we're involved now." Humphries looked down at the parchment in front of her and seized the nearby quill. "Now, what made him so mad?"

"Work stuff."

"What _kind_ of work stuff?"

Annoyance in his tone, he mumbled, "I don't know, Humphries. I fired him, he wanted his job back, I said no, and that's the end of it. I'm sure he just got drinking and decided to try and settle it with a duel. I doubt it's the first time brothers had a friendly duel over something silly."

He decided to leave out the part where he caught Ron trying to steal a case of Cupid Crystals. Not only was it another charge, but it also seemed quite personal, given his circumstances.

Humphries squinted. "Are you sure that's all, Mr. Weasley?"

George leveled a glare at her. "Yes, I'm _sure._ "

Nodding, she scribbled down her notes. Then, she arched a dark eyebrow. "And you're sure this has nothing to do with his recent separation from the Minister for Magic?"

"I wasn't aware of a separation," he lied. "Sounds like a bunch of dragon dung."

Humphries chuckled. "Maybe so, Mr. Weasley. I will say this: if you know _anything_ incriminating regarding the Minister for Magic, we could get your brother out of this situation. It would be like it never happened. Witnesses obliviated and all."

Twisting his face in disgust, George spat, "I have two words for you, Humphries."

Her hand shook excitedly and the quill stained the page with ink. "Yes? What is it?"

"Fuck you."


	32. Sneakily

There were no windows. Although it was merely hours beyond daybreak, it could have been twilight and nobody in the room would have known. Lit only by dim candles and the tip of an Auror's wand, the former broom cupboard only beckoned hopelessness.

Ronald Weasley did not remember the events leading up to the moment, but he did recognize an interrogation when he saw one. A man with an impossibly sculpted swoop of hair sat across from him, paying him little attention as he adjusted his pastel blue sleeves. The man would not be the interrogator. He was simply there to stand guard until someone with a more severe demeanor came into the picture.

"Do these look even?" the man asked, holding his hairless arms out.

Ron frowned at the cuffed sleeves. "Look fine to me."

He leaned back and folded his arms, glancing around the room. There was no use trying to leave. As soon as he made an attempt, the man in the corner with the lit wand would have him on the ground. Besides, he was weaponless. The wand that was confiscated from him was either with a party that was not in the room or locked away in a warded vault. Reminiscing about protocol made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, he had been a good Auror all along.

The man patted his hair, confirming that it was still in place. "You know, we all have little family quarrels. Once my sister used my forty-Galleon comb on her Kneazle. Had me sneezing like the dickens. Was a monthlong dispute 'til she finally sucked it up and paid me for it."

"Must've been some comb," Ron mumbled, unsure what the story had to do with him. "What time is it?"

The man from the corner spoke up. "Almost eleven in the mornin'."

The redhead narrowed his eyes. In the semidarkness, he didn't recognize the wizard, but after he heard his voice, he knew exactly who it was. "Melman?"

"Weasley." He didn't budge.

"When's the boss gonna get here?" Ron asked, hoping that it was his brother-in-law.

"Soon enough," Melman said, coldly, gripping his illuminated wand as tightly as possible. "Best not expect any special treatment just because you're Potter's mate. We don't cut anyone any favors, nowadays."

The well-pressed man scowled. "Shut up, Melman! No need to scare the poor bloke."

"Better he knows the truth. He and I go way back, don't we, Weasley?"

Ron looked around the tiny room again as he nodded distractedly. "Sure do."

"We used to work cases with Potter back in our heyday," Melman explained, taking a few steps forward. His boots echoed against the stone floor. "Catching Death Eaters that fled after the war, registering werewolves, all sorts of dangerous work. You wouldn't even have been a first-year yet, Primpernelle."

"Merlin forbid I'm young and able-bodied," the handsome brunette sputtered.

Melman chuckled. "Weasley and I used to be young and able-bodied. Seems like you replaced all that exercise with too much butterbeer, eh?" The balding Auror prodded Ron's stomach with his glowing wand. "No wonder your brother had you down so quick."

"My brother?"

"You really don't remember, do you?" Melman asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Ron shook his head.

Melman patted his old friend on the shoulder. "Let's just wait for Humphries, mate. Best you know as little as possible for your case."

* * *

Time was of the essence, and as book after book offered no answers, a frustrated woman tangled her hands in her messy, dark hair. The more she read, the more she came back to the suggestion she made at her paramour's dining room table. Perhaps, if they simply moved the object, they could pretend it was never in their possession.

"No, we can't do that," she grumbled, rubbing her temples, though no one else was in the room to hear her. "Something like that in the wrong hands..."

The papers atop her desk served as a reminder that she was far behind when it came to her duties as Minister for Magic, but with hopes to be rid of the Dark artifact the next day, she had no time to sign off on court appeals and petty legislation. Draco Malfoy's freedom was at stake. Her career was at stake. A young boy's livelihood was at stake. There was too much on the line to waste her time reading drivel and diving headfirst into useless texts.

"Damn it," the Minister cursed, slamming shut _Mysterious Artifacts: Modern Magical Law_.

It was the gilded front cover of the book that made her do a double-take. Written in pristine, wide-set letters, was a name that she recognized: Lenore Thomas. Of course, when she first opened the book, she had briefly acknowledged that she knew the author, but she did not think to speak to her. As a matter of fact, she disliked even making _eye contact_ with the woman. Ron often described Lenore Thomas as "off her broomstick", and though Hermione did not often agree with her husband, she snorted whenever he said it.

Dark artifact law was handled by a number of Ministry branches, but the branch that would ultimately take in the artifacts was undoubtedly the Department of Mysteries. Since she could not ask Harry or anyone else from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she would have to settle for her next best line of contact.

Hermione tapped her wand three times and awaited her assistant's arrival. It was not long before the petite girl quietly opened the heavy door and timidly waggled her fingers.

"Madelyn, I need a meeting with Lenore Thomas. Today."

The redhead curled her lip downward, obviously confused by the request. The Seer's name was rarely spoken by anyone in the Ministry. "Th-the H-Head of the Department of M-Mysteries?"

"That's the one."

* * *

Interrogation Room Three was one of the second-in-command's least favorite places, but it did tend to yield the best results. As her heavy boots thudded against the black marble floor, she prepared herself for the room's inherent darkness and musty odor. After three raps upon the old, wooden door, she was greeted by the deep, raspy voice of none other than Nelson Melman.

"It's Humphries."

"If that's so, tell me when we completed our boggart mission in Bathgate."

Humphries chuckled. "Thirty-first of July, 2013. Potter's birthday. We went for drinks at a Muggle pub called MacCalley's afterwards."

The door swung open and she was met by a lit wand. "Gotta warn you, Humphries, it smells like damp werewolf and hippogriff bollocks in there," Melman grunted, pushing past her. He pivoted on his heel. "Go easy on 'im, yeah?"

A small smirk played at her lips. "Of course."

Melman closed the door behind him and the tiny room went dark. The former broom cupboard was a claustrophobic space; its only purpose was to drive criminals so mad that they were willing to confess to anything, no matter the severity.

Only by the glow of candlelight could she make out two men: the first was tall with greasy red-and-grey hair and a bulging belly, while the other was slender and exquisitely prim. Recognizing one from her department and one only from the _Daily Prophet_ , she let out a sigh of contentment. Maybe she did not have to wait for Hermione Granger to slip up after all.

"Mr. Weasley," she breathed, sauntering towards the table in the center of the impossibly small room. "I'm Phoebe Humphries. It's _truly_ a pleasure."

The Minister's husband eyed her hand as she reached out, but shook it, nonetheless. "Are you gonna tell me why I'm in here?"

With a soft chuckle, she sat on the edge of the table. "Ah, Eldin and Nelson were not kind enough to inform you of your charges? I must say, it brings me no glee to be left with such a task. You must have been quite intoxicated to forget what transpired this morning between you and your brother."

"Melman mentioned something about my brother. Which one was it. Percy?"

"George." Cocking an eyebrow, she inquired, "What _is_ the last thing you remember, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron peered over at Primpernelle, whose vacant eyes were fixed upon his bronze cufflinks. The high-maintenance twenty-something would be of no help to him, and if Ron Weasley knew anything about being an Auror, he would know that the useless Auror's presence was by design. Humphries knew there was a chance that Melman may have used his body language to assist Ron through the interrogation, and she was not about to let her plan go awry.

"I was at the Leaky. Drank a few ales, was chattin' up a pretty waitress. Not the usual girl there, a good-lookin' one, with blue hair and big—well, she had all 'er teeth. Let's leave it that way." He gestured Primpernelle. "Next thing I know, I'm here with this wanker."

"Hey!"

"Hush now, Eldin," Humphries muttered, waving off the young wizard. She crossed her legs. "Tell me more about the waitress, Mr. Weasley. What did you talk about?"

Ron's face twisted as he racked his brain. "Well, first we talked 'bout the ale I picked out. Then, we started talkin' about sandwiches. She agreed they should serve 'em. Much better than the other waitress. She just takes a nasty tone whenever I ask for one."

"You _did_ say she was pretty, did you not?" Humphries put her hands on her muscular thighs, leaning forward with interest. "What would the Minister think if she heard you say such a thing?"

"W-well, I can't imagine she'd be too happy, if I'm bein' honest," Ron said, his gaze darting from his interrogator to the man who was now far too fascinated by his own fingernails. "You won't tell her, will you?"

"Oh, of course not. I imagine you need to stay out of trouble, considering your recent...separation."

The hungover Weasley looked unimpressed. "She tell you about that, did she?"

"Merlin no. I suspect the Minister keeps her personal matters as private as she can. But no one's safe from imps' whispers, or so the saying goes," Humphries replied, her blue irises twinkling. "I must say, it makes sense. After all, you _were_ caught trying to smuggle Cupid Crystals from your brother's shop."

Ron knit his brows together. "I don't remember takin' any Cupid Crystals."

"Ah, but you did. The squib caught you in the act. The question is: were you trying to win back your wife or woo the waitress from the Leaky Cauldron?"

"I-I don't know."

"And you remember nothing else you may have done that could be considered...inappropriate?" Humphries hopped down from the table and clasped her hands behind her back.

"Other than gettin' sloshed at the Leaky?"

"Yes, _other_ than indulging at the Leaky Cauldron," she confirmed with a roll of her eyes. "You must recall _something._ "

He shrugged. "S'pose I blacked it out."

"So you don't remember going to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?" she pressed, towering over him. "What about hexing your brother? Remember that?"

"Doesn't ring a bell." The look on his face was evidence enough. He wasn't lying. "Wait, are you tryin' to tell me that I hexed my own brother?"

"Must've been some morning to forget so much." Snapping her fingers in front of the young Auror's face, she demanded, "Primpernelle. Primpernelle! Fetch me a vial of Memory Potion, will you?" She turned back to Ron, a mischievous glint in her eye. "And knock before you come back in."

* * *

Despite the winter snow, tulips and chrysanthemums poked out from the icy earth, welcoming the unusual few that Pansy and Theodore Nott invited to their large mansion. Troves of house-elves adorned in matching snow boots and scarves trampled through the garden, trimming rose thorns and scrubbing gargoyles as though their lives depended on it. In all fairness, the Notts _were_ the type of family to put them to death for underperformance.

Silver tendrils of hair fit rightfully among the frosted backdrop. Curling his long pale fingers, the man knocked. Almost immediately, an aged house-elf flung open the door.

"Master Malfoy." The elf's voice was raspy. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Where is Theo?" Warm clouds of breath fell from his lips as it met the cold air. "I need to talk to him."

"Master Nott isn't home, I'm afraid. Please do come back another time," Galdron said, slowly closing the door.

"What about Pansy?" the blond wizard asked, fervently, grabbing the doorknob and pulling it open again. "Is she in?"

The house-elf was seemingly displeased with the question. "Lady Nott isn't feeling very well. She has asked not to see any visitors."

"Galdron, this is important. Please, just let me talk to her. I'll be quick!"

Closing the door once more, Galdron shook his head. "Quite sorry, Master Malfoy, but orders are orders."

As soon as the door shut in his face, Draco growled and knocked again. It cracked open and he said, "Galdron, listen to me. I _have_ to see Pansy—"

"And _I_ have to answer to her if I let someone inside when she's asked me not to." He pushed on the door again, and the crack grew smaller and smaller.

"Galdron, you blasted elf! Listen to me!" Draco shouted, pulling hard on the knob. "I could go to _Azkaban_."

The house-elf's expression became quite serious. "I see." He cleared his throat. "Very well, then, Master Malfoy. Follow me."

Instead of walking all the way down the never-ending corridor, the elf took a quick turn right after the foyer and clapped his hands. The grand, paneled wall seemed to melt into the marble floor, exposing a winding, wrought-iron staircase surrounded by dozens of paintings, all of Nott and Parkinson lineage. Galdron ascended, only to turn and raise his sparse eyebrows.

"Master Malfoy?"

Draco swallowed thickly and nodded, tailing the house-elf up the staircase. Several portraits offered a nod of respect, while a few Parkinson women quipped things like, "Is that the son of Lucius Malfoy? Is he finally here to whisk away our darling Pansy?" and "He was always such a handsome boy. Shame she chose that _other_ one."

The Parkinson women were met with arguments from the Nott portraits. "He's a blood traitor! Theodore has always been too good for that foul little wench."

"Ha! Too good for her? Pansy is far too pretty to have settled for a man of lesser fortune than her own. The dowry wasn't even a tenth of her inheritance!"

Doing his best to ignore the portraits' gossip, he kept moving upwards until Galdron stopped. The house-elf snapped his fingers and a hallway opened, leading all the way to the stair his gnarled, elderly feet were planted upon. With a heavy sigh, Draco followed the elf through the opening and padded down the carpeted hall.

Unlike the rest of the house, the hallway was striking violet with accents of bronze and black. The house-elf appeared to be uncomfortable as he quietly trod down the long, curvy corridor. When he reached a wide, black door, he took a deep breath. Rather than knocking the usual thrice, he knocked five times.

"Lady Nott?"

Draco heard what sounded like sobbing followed by an anxious squeak. Surely, she was not still upset about her feline companion's untimely death.

Disheveled, she inched the door open. Even hunched over and woebegone, she was taller than he remembered, undoubtedly from illegal Leg-Lengthening Draught. Despite its prohibition, it was a common elixir for wealthy, pure-blood witches. Draco remembered his mother demanding that Astoria drank it before their wedding. A tall bride made for better portraits.

"Lady Nott, Master Malfoy." Galdron presented the middle-aged Malfoy with a bow.

Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed. "Galdron! I _told_ you I don't want any visitors!"

"It's just me, Pans," the pale wizard offered, giving her a small smile.

"So I see." She folded her arms and gave her hired help a dark look. "Galdron, get this man out of my sight at once."

"What in Merlin's name has gotten into you, Pansy?" Draco batted Galdron's frail fingers away from his forearm. He pushed the door open slightly, earning a growl from the thin, dark-haired woman. "Are we not friends?"

Acrimony lit a fire in her glassy eyes. "I don't know, Draco. _Are_ we?"

Perplexed by the question, Draco slowly inquired, "Pansy, what exactly is going on?"

"As if you don't know!" she screeched, stalking away from the door. Audibly stifling a sob, she plopped in front of a black and bronze desk. Pinching a rather expensive-looking raven quill between her fingers, she looked back over at him. "Galdron, you may leave. Don't think we won't be _discussing_ this later."

Galdron nodded and miserably plodded away.

"What is it that I know, then?" Draco asked, raising a brow.

"They were looking for _me_. If he hadn't told me to come up here..." Her voice trailed off and she shuddered before dipping the quill in a glittery black inkwell and scribbling upon the parchment in front of her.

"Pansy, _who_ is looking for you?" he insisted, stepping into the room, which he quickly realized was not just a personal study, but also a bedroom for one.

"Who do you think?" she hissed, still writing, furiously. Sniffling a bit, she added, "They want it back. I never knew they'd want it back."

"For Merlin's sake, Pansy! Who is 'they'?"

Her eyes met his, glazed over with terror. "Travers and Rowle."

Draco went cold. "Excuse me?"

"So you see why it's a problem now," she growled, turning back to the parchment before her.

"But they're in Azkaban," he said, uncertainly, taking a step closer to her. "There was just an article about them in the _Prophet_ two weeks ago. They couldn't possibly..."

With another glare in his direction, Pansy scoffed, "Oh, please, Draco! You're clever enough. Do you really believe they don't have the connections to get out of that pit? Shacklebolt and that hideous little Mud—" She pursed her lips as Draco shot her a dark look. "— _Muggle-born_ worked so hard to get the Dementors out of there. Now, it's chockfull of wizards, and you know what kind of wizards want to work in a place like that? Not good ones, I'll tell you _that_ much." She dipped her quill in ink again and scribbled a quick signature. "With a good scheme and the right price, I imagine _anyone_ can escape."

"Polyjuice Potion," he whispered, backing up to sit on the edge of the twin bed. "But who?"

Pansy clenched her jaw as she folded the letter she was writing and tucked it in a nearby envelope. "Muggles. Geraldine Bulstrode gave them a choice: death or life in Azkaban, in place of Travers and Rowle. Too bad they didn't know death would be the preferable option."

Cradling his face in his hands, Draco muttered, "Do I even want to know how you know all this?"

"Well, as you know, Theodore and I still speak with Millicent," Pansy explained, dripping emerald wax onto the envelope and sealing it, likely with the Nott crest. "Her and I met for lunch and she just so happened to mention what her cousin was up to. By the way she said it, you'd swear she was talking about a new owl or redecorating her sitting room." Leaving the letter on the desk, she spun around in her chair to face the blond wizard. "That's when she brought up the—never mind."

Drawing his brows together, he asked, "Brought up the _what?_ "

Pansy mumbled something inaudible under her breath.

Draco leaned closer. "What was that?"

"The vase!" she shouted, getting to her feet and balling her fists. "The vase, okay? I didn't buy it in Knockturn Alley." Tears were welling in her eyes. "I told Theo I did because—well, he would've been suspicious. It was beautiful, Draco. Exactly the type of piece I needed for the mantle. When she showed it to me, I-I couldn't turn it away. Even though it made me feel _dreadful_ , I thought it was just—I thought it was like that antique mirror in my parents' house—that the feeling would go away after a few months..."

His breath hitched. "Pansy, where is Theo? He isn't—he didn't go with Rowle and Travers, did he?"

She shook her head, wiping away tears. "No, no. He went with Jeremy Preachwell. One of Bulstrode's little dogs. They'll likely torture him, then subject him to questioning, and then—" Her eyes darted to Draco. "Well, I suspect you ought to head to France soon, Draco."

Rubbing his temples, he said, "That may complicate things. I actually came here because a friend of mine had told me that I'll likely be in the scope of the Ministry soon. They suspect Aurors are tracking the magic used on my property. I could go to Azkaban, Pansy."

"Your collection," Pansy said with a nod, sniffling again. "You haven't _performed_ any Dark spells, have you?

"No," he admitted, "but the vase, once it's destroyed—"

"You haven't destroyed it yet?" she asked, beaming. "That means—that means you could get us out of this mess! Just give the vase to me, I'll turn it over to them and all our hands are clean."

Draco was silent, hanging his head lowly and lacing his hands together.

"You aren't saying anything." The brunette was quiet as she plopped back down into her desk chair. "You're still going to destroy it, no matter what that means for Theodore and myself."

"Pansy—"

"You said yourself that you could go to Azkaban for it. Why the risk?" Pansy pulled a knee to her chest, wrapping her arms around it. "I'm tired of living in fear. I'm tired of worrying where my husband is. You were lucky. You got out." She let go of her leg and planted her foot on the floor. "You can stay out if you just _give me the vase back._ "

"It isn't that simple, Pansy." With a deep breath, he stood. "As much as I'd love to help you, I'm getting a bit too old to be getting involved with the Dark Arts and those that practice them. I don't think either of us is going to get what we wanted out of this little chat, so perhaps, I ought to head home."

Just as he was ready to walk out the door, she whispered, "It's Granger, isn't it? Your friend you mentioned."

He flared his nostrils, unwilling to say anything.

Another tear ran down her cheek and she seized the envelope from the table. "You picked her over our friendship before. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you did it again." She waved him away. "You'll have to go to the edge of the gardens or the wards won't let you out. I'm afraid I can't accompany you there. I have a letter that I need to get to my father. It seems that I'll still be needing his help after all."

* * *

Confused and anxious, Ronald Weasley looked up at Phoebe Humphries. As she hopped down from the table and sauntered over to the seat Primpernelle once sat in, there was a cockiness about her that made him feel ill at ease. Smirking, she dropped her elbow onto the table and cupped her chin in her hand.

"Nobody blames you for what happened with your brother, Mr. Weasley. You miss your wife. You want her back. You spent the evening talking to a beautiful woman, feeling guiltier and guiltier until you realized she wasn't what you wanted at all." Humphries tilted her head a bit. "Is that right?"

Skeptically, Ron nodded. "Possibly."

"There's nothing wrong with loving your wife, Mr. Weasley," Humphries noted. "But she's been acting strangely, hasn't she? Before the separation, she wasn't the same."

Slowly, Ron nodded again. "Sure. I-I mean, we—we had our differences."

"Your drinking has become _quite_ the public spectacle, but she's your _wife_. In sickness and in health. She wasn't living up to her end of the bargain, was she? Working late? There were times you wanted to know where she was," she pressed. "Weren't there? Times that she couldn't explain why she was gone."

Thinking for a long moment, Ron finally asked, "What does all this have to do with hexin' my brother?"

Humphries sighed. "Love makes us do unthinkable things. When you need something so desperately, you don't even think about what you're doing."

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I suppose so."

" _What_ made you so desperate, Mr. Weasley?" she pried. "What told you that she didn't just want space? What told you that this was more than that?"

He scrunched his face in bewilderment. "I-I don't know!"

"Was she gone overnight ever? Was she spending time with anyone you didn't approve of? What of the papers? Her and Draco Malfoy?"

Anger was in his eyes. "If you know something I don't about her and Malfoy—"

"I don't know if I do or I don't, Mr. Weasley. What _do_ you know of her and Draco Malfoy?"

"W-well, I—nothing really. They're friends, she says." Annoyed, he folded his arms. "But I—never mind."

"You don't believe her," Humphries concluded. "She's went missing before, hasn't she? Often?"

He shook his head. "No, not often. Just the once."

"Once?" she asked, leaning forward, fascinated. "Tell me about it."

"She claims she was in Liverpool to get scouse—didn't quite believe her but—can you tell me what this has to do with George? What's going on with my wife? Is she in trouble?"

Humphries chuckled. "Oh, no, Mr. Weasley. She most certainly isn't in any kind of trouble. Though I must say, you could be off the hook entirely if you have any other information on her. I could forget about this entire thing if you know anything...particularly incriminating."

"Incriminating?" he asked. "Now, I don't know what you're playin' at, Humphries—"

She laughed. "I'm not playing at anything. I just know to take the giant squid instead of the grindylow when I can. You were once an Auror. I'm sure you're familiar with the concept."

Ron locked his jaw for a moment, quietly mulling over what Humphries was asking of him. No matter how much he and Hermione fought, he would never snitch on her. Besides, he did not think she was doing anything _illegal_. Before he could say his peace, there was a knock on the door.

"It's Primpernelle!"

Humphries scowled. "If that's so, what haircare product did I tell you to toss out just last week?"

"My mum's Waxing Moon Hairwax," he groaned. "I still expect you to buy me a new tub of that."

Sighing, Humphries waved her hand and the door flew open. Primpernelle shuffled into the room, cursing under his breath, a vial in his grasp. Even in the semidarkness, Ron could see the annoyance in the Auror's face. He suspected the tidy wizard scuffed his gleaming leather shoes on his way back to the interrogation room.

"Poor timing, Eldin. Mr. Weasley was just leaving."

Primpernelle glared at his boss. "You're kidding."

"I most certainly am not. Mr. Weasley, you'll receive an owl regarding your trial. In the meantime, if you have anything else to tell me, you know where to find me."

"I—"

Humphries stood and shook her head, "We have nothing more to discuss. You may either leave now or wait for your hearing in Azkaban. Your choice."

Mortified, Ron scrambled to his feet and rushed out the door, wondering what had just happened.

* * *

The room was too bright. There were many reasons that the Minister for Magic avoided Lenore Thomas's office at all costs, and the glimmering silver light was one of them. Unfortunately, there was no circumnavigating the woman this time. Her advice was too valuable to pass up.

"You did not offer much notice, Minister," Lenore said, pointedly, lacing her long fingers. Sapphire, dagger-like nails on each hand perfectly complemented her sepia skin. "May I ask what brings you to the Department of Mysteries?"

Hermione stiffened her posture. "Firstly, I must ask that you do not inform anyone of this meeting. This is strictly confidential."

A small, knowing smile was fixed upon Lenore's dark, glossy lips. "Everything that happens in my department is strictly confidential, Minister. I can assure you that my silence will not be a problem."

"Yes, right. Well, then I suppose I should get right to the point." She smoothed her skirt, nervously. "I have some questions about your...processes."

Craning her neck, Lenore inquired, "You do understand there are some things that I cannot share even with you, Minister?"

Hermione nodded. "I do."

"Good. Then I shall answer what I can."

Unable to look the witch in the eye, the Minister for Magic stared at the painting right behind her. As the illustrated unicorn's gaze leveled with hers, she finally asked, "How does your team handle Dark artifacts that are willingly surrendered?"

"Well," Lenore started, pushing her chained spectacles up her nose, "assuming that they've been properly registered with the Ministry, members of my team accompany Aurors to the artifact's location for the retrieval. Then, the objects are locked away, stored safely for research."

Hermione cleared her throat. "And what if the artifacts weren't properly registered?"

"Then, we would have to determine how long that individual had the item in their possession. If it was in their custody longer than one hundred days, we must then pass them along to the departments equipped to prosecute." Lenore tapped a vial atop her desk. It was filled to the brim with a swirling, periwinkle potion. "Minister, do you know what this is?"

The brunette was skeptical. "No, Madam Thomas. I do not."

A soft chuckle fell from the department head's lips as she picked up the potion and fingered the glass vial. "Desire Draught. Desiderserum. It goes by many names, all of them known only to the few in my department that have been working with it. A rare potion, closely related to Veritaserum. The only difference is that the ingredients needed for this potion are arguably unethical to obtain. Desiderserum will never be available to the public, and for good reason. What the Mirror of Erised shows, the Desiderserum can make a reality—at least to the user. In their mind, the dead can become alive. Extraordinary power can become theirs." Her eyes flitted towards the Minister. "Unsavory romances can have fairytale endings."

Hermione swallowed hard. "Quite a discovery."

Lenore nodded. "Indeed." She set the vial down and laced her fingers together once more. "So what would _your_ reality be, Minister?"

"I-I don't know," the Minister stammered. She stood and fixed her blouse. "Perhaps, I ought to go—"

"There is no need to be afraid, Minister. Your future with Draco Malfoy may be tumultuous, but with Desiderserum, all the complications would disappear. At least they would _seem_ to."

Hermione quickly turned on her heel. "What did you say?"

"This _is_ why you came, yes?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione grumbled, careful to avoid eye contact. She headed for the door, only to wheel around and add, "Do not pretend that you know me or what you're talking about just because of what you saw in a _Daily Prophet_ headline."

"Ah, yes. You don't believe in Seeing, do you, Minister? I suppose you wouldn't want to hear of my visions regarding you and Mr. Malfoy, then. Of his fate? Of yours?"

Hermione opened her mouth but nothing came out.

"It doesn't surprise me that Mr. Malfoy has Dark artifacts in his possession, nor does it surprise me that you're here today, searching for a way to keep him out of Azkaban," she said, standing. She cuffed her hands behind her back and paced. "My team lurks in the shadows for good reason, Minister. We shan't emerge from them unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

Horrified, Hermione hissed, "How much do you know?"

Lenore smiled, knowingly. "Enough."

The Minister held her breath for a long, terrible moment. Finally, she pulled her wand and pointed it at the pacing woman. Beads of sweat formed upon her forehead as her mind raced, trying to determine her next course of action. Lenore had always been strange, but never did Hermione think she was capable of advanced prophesizing.

"Are you going to obliviate me, Minister?" The Seer walked to the unicorn portrait. The creature was drinking from a silvery-blue stream, undisturbed by the uncomfortable scene unfolding before it. "I can assure that it would make no difference. My team is nameless, nonexistent as far as the Ministry is concerned, and their work will not end with the disappearance of my memories."

Hermione shook her head, slowly, her wand still trained on the elderly woman. "I can't trust you." Her voice faltered. "You'll tell somebody. You have to."

The Gryffindor woman was not one to make rash decisions out of panic. Alas, the witch that she thought may help her had become a threat instead. She knew of Draco's collection, and she was required to report it. Hermione was not sure what game Lenore was playing, but she was not going to participate.

Lenore pressed her lips into a firm line and fixed her tall, berry-colored hat. She held her wandless hands up in surrender. "I will not meddle with fate, Minister."

The last time that Hermione had uttered a memory spell, she had been casting it upon her poor, unprepared parents. Salty tears brushed her lips and her wand hand shook with trepidation. It would have been easier to cast an Unforgivable Curse.

_"Goodbye, Mum. Goodbye, Dad," Hermione whispered, trembling. "I love you."_

"The prophecies are pure truth," Lenore insisted. "This will change nothing."

"It will change _everything!_ " Hermione shouted, thinking back to her parents.

Lenore offered a bored sigh. "And that is something you want? You believe change to be good?"

"I believe that change saves lives, Madam Thomas."

Lenore nodded. "You have made your decision already, then. I advise you get it over with before someone comes looking for either of us, Minister."

Hermione gulped.

" _Obliviate!_ "


	33. Disguisedly

The office of Gob Strothers was in a state of disarray. Granted, it always was, but on that Tuesday, it was peculiarly disorganized, even for him. As usual, there was hit piece from a rather unknown tabloid regarding the Minister for Magic, and like always, damage control would be wholly necessary. Of course, the writer had no proof of the allegations, but it was always easier to warn the _Daily Prophet_ than it was to let such a piece become their purported truth.

Hoping to control the narrative as well as he possibly could, Gob pressed his quill to the branded parchment before him. The words he desired to write ached to flow from his hand, but they did not. He cursed to himself. The inkwell that he had been using for weeks had finally dried up and to his annoyance, there was no more ink in any of his desk drawers. He rifled through each and every hidden compartment, careful not to bump into any of his many stacks of newspapers. Unfortunately, a knock on the door made him jump and papers scattered everywhere, anyway.

After a throaty scowl, he shouted, "Come in!"

The door cracked open and he looked up, expecting to see a meek Madelyn MacBain. She was, after all, his most frequent visitor as of late. However, he was pleasantly surprised. Sharp blue eyes stared back at him and the door slammed shut.

"Phoebe Humphries," he greeted her. "I must say, I didn't expect to see you on this fine morning."

The Auror wove between the many stacks of books and newspapers until she found the chair across from him. With her legs crossed and a smirk on her face, she replied, "Let's just say I had an interesting run-in with the Minister for Magic's husband this morning."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it surprised me too." Humphries pushed her dark hair behind her ear. "You know that he and the Minister aren't living together right now? She's staying with Potter."

"Of course I knew that," Gob scoffed, quickly losing interest. He flicked his wand and all of the newspapers restacked themselves. "Is that what you came here to tell me?"

"No, actually." She cracked her knuckles, earning a grimace from Gob. "Weasley hexed his brother and tried to steal some merchandise from his shop, so naturally, I thought it might be an opportunity to coax some information out of him. Too self-righteous, that one. Couldn't get him to implicate her—not even in exchange for a lightened sentence. Confirmed that she did take off for a night, though. I thought that may be noteworthy."

"Did he say where to?"

She shook her head. "Might've been with Malfoy, might've been just getting away from the imbecilic drunk. Who knows."

"MacBain has been instructed to keep watch of her schedule." Gob chewed on the inside of his cheek, making a mental note to have a talk with the Minister's virtually useless assistant. "It seems she's not doing a very good job of it."

"It would be better for us if Granger doesn't feel any pressure," Humphries said, disapprovingly. "The more free rein we give her, the faster she's going to slip up."

The Minister for Magic kept him busy enough without being given free rein. Hermione Granger's constant disregard for her public image _did_ provide job security, but if she lost her position, he lost his too. The missteps that she had already made would certainly keep him employed until the end of her time in office. "I'm not trying to lose my job, Humphries."

Humphries craned her neck. "What about a promotion?"

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" Gob was the top public relations advisor for the Minister for Magic. There was no higher position in his field.

"Well, if Granger's out of office, someone has to take her place," she elaborated, a conniving smirk plastered on her face. "Why not you?"

"Me?" Gob laughed. "You can't be serious."

"But I am! Imagine! The public already knows you. They _trust_ you!" The excited woman was making wild gesticulations. "There isn't a more perfect candidate, Strothers. Nobody could compete if you were to run. Not with the way you understand the public."

"Understanding the public hardly makes me qualified to be Minister for Magic, Phoebe."

"It does, though, doesn't it? All you have to do is convince them that you'll do whatever they want," Humphries pressed. "You could have them wrapped around your wand. Just think about it for a moment. Really picture it. That big office, the spotlight, the _gold_. You could have everything, Strothers. But there's no chance if she's still in office. We have to get her _out._ "

"I'm not convinced," he replied, boredly. "I'll indulge you, though. What exactly is your plan?"

Humphries grinned, mischievously. "Did you know that Rita Skeeter is an Animagus?"  
  


* * *

  
Regret left a vile taste in Hermione Granger's mouth. Nearly an hour had passed since she had obliviated Lenore Thomas, yet it was not the elderly Seer's face that was burned into her brain. It was those of her parents.

Unlike her mother and father, Lenore had been expecting the Forgetfulness Charm. As the Head of the Department of Mysteries, she was more familiar with the spell than most. Still, she stared back at her attacker, vacantly, almost as though she did not mind what was to come. Hermione could not believe that she let her emotions run so rampant. Her recklessness was bound to catch up with her if she could not suppress such compulsions.

The creaking of her office door startled her. Her assistant peered inside, gauging the mood before she said anything. Hermione knew that she had been particularly touchy that day, but there was no reason to raise any suspicions. If she did not want to be suspected in the case of Lenore Thomas's lost memory, she would have to carry on with business, just as she usually would.

"Madelyn."

Madelyn offered a weak smile as the heavy door shut behind her. "S-sorry to bother you, M-Minister. I h-hope I'm not i-interrupting."

"I suppose it doesn't matter if you are. Work is work," Hermione replied, stiffly. "What do you need?"

The redhead bit her lip. "I know y-you're busy b-but Ardus C-Castle stopped by. He needs an update on the a-appeal he put in, if p-possible? He said he'll only t-talk to you. I tried to organize a m-meeting but he wouldn't take no for an answer..."

"Appeal?" Hermione frowned, opening her desk drawer and seizing the pile of unfinished paperwork that she had stashed inside of it. Leafing through pages, she asked, "Did he say what it was regarding?"

Madelyn shook her head. "He just s-said that he n-needs to see you immediately. I said no but he th-threatened to h-hex me..."

Then, as she realized that there was not a single appeal submitted by Ardus Castle, it became all the more clear that her visitor was not Ardus Castle at all.

* * *

Limerick's Libations had every type of wine and spirit imaginable. From the finest of honey meads to imported bubble bourbon, a witch or wizard could warm their stomach with anything they desired. Naturally, it was one of Ron Weasley's favorite stops in all of Diagon Alley.

The owner, Limerick Hornby Jr., was not someone that Ron would choose to befriend, but they saw each other so often that they had certainly become more than acquaintances. He was a pig-faced wizard, with an expensive wristwatch and perpetual five o' clock shadow, often adorned in robes that were far too loose or far too tight, but never properly fit. As Ron gave him a wave, he tipped his olive green pork pie hat.

Ron, exhausted after the bizarre morning, saw his favorite liquor perched atop a high shelf. Like always, it was far out of reach, and he was forced to use the rusty hand-crank to lower it. Bottles clanked together as the shelves revolved, only held in place by a poorly performed Sticking Charm that was likely cast by Limerick himself. He really was never all that good at magic.

"Good ol' Ogden's, eh?" Limerick said, gruffly, bagging the bottle with his coarse hands. The gold chains around his neck jangled with each movement. "Tough day?"

"Not keen on discussin' it, really."

Limerick nodded. "That'll be eight sickles."

Ron nodded and turned his pockets. After a quick trip to Gringotts, he had been able to withdraw a rather hefty sum from the guarded vault he shared with his estranged wife. Finding eight sickles had only proven to be a challenging task because there were too many Galleons getting in the way of his long, swollen fingers.

"Here ya go." Ron dropped the silver into Limerick's palm. "Thanks, mate."

"I'll be seein' ya soon, Weasley."

With his bottle of liquor in hand, Ron Apparated to 16 Gryffindor Drive. The wizard was still quite confused from his run-in with Phoebe Humphries, and as he collapsed onto the lumpy sofa, he reflected on her words.

_"I'm not playing at anything. I just know to take the giant squid instead of the grindylow when I can."_

The woman's intentions were obvious. For some reason unbeknownst to him, the Auror wanted his wife out of office. He and Hermione were not on good terms, and though he did not want to admit it, he wasn't sure if they ever would be again—yet it didn't matter. There was nothing that Phoebe Humphries could do to make him snitch. Ron did not remember much over the many years that they spent together, but he did remember how much Hermione's career meant to her.

_"Do I look okay?" she asked, nervously, buttoning up her cardigan. "I don't look like a Muggle, do I?"_

_Ron shrugged. "So what if you do? Half your policies are supposed to improve relations with Muggles and Muggle-borns, yeah?"_

_"That's actually a really good point, Ron." Hermione was beaming, but the smile was gone as quickly as it came. "I hope everyone else sees it that way..."_

_"You'll do great," he reassured her, grabbing her by the shoulders. "You look beautiful. Everyone will think so, and if not, they're a bunch o' gits."_

_"_ Roooon! _" Her eyes were tearing up. "You're too good to me."_

_"Only because I don't deserve you." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Now you ready to win this bloody thing?"_

_She grinned. "Ready as ever."_

Before Ron could reminisce any longer, he noticed movement from just outside his living room window. Frowning, he stood and peered through the glass. The hedges swayed with the wind while a wild, twitchy-nosed rabbit fussed beneath the great beech tree, eyes bulging as it looked for predators. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Assuming that he had not gotten enough sleep, he settled back into his spot on the sofa and took a swig of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Naturally, he was anxious after an interrogation. He had witnessed it hundreds of times back when he was questioning Death Eaters.

Alas, only a few moments later, he heard a heavy thud followed by a shout. "Oh blast!"

Certain that the interjection had not come from the rabbit, he jolted towards the window once more. "Oi!" he yelled, smacking the pane with his palm. A pointed periwinkle hat was visible amongst the hedge. "Oi! What're you doin' out there?"

The wizard looked up at him, wide-eyed, and Ron's jaw dropped. The trespasser was none other than Eldin Primpernelle.

Infuriated, Ron reached for his wand, but Eldin had let out a yelp and ran, yellow sparks flying behind him. Ron stormed towards the front door and opened it, knitting his brows together when Eldin was nowhere in sight.

"Primpernelle!" he boomed, walking out onto his front lawn. As he turned the corner, he shouted it again. "Primpernelle!"

Confused, he plodded along the hedge and circled to the back of the house. His eyes widened when he caught the tail-end of periwinkle robes. He darted towards them, but as he turned the corner for a final time, he saw Primpernelle only for a brief second. A sharp _crack!_ pierced the air and the Auror Disapparated, leaving Ron to wonder what he was doing there in the first place.  
  


* * *

  
Every witch in the eastern corridor grimaced as they saw the hulking, slouched frame of Ardus Castle. The wizard did, after all, have a bit of a reputation when it came to the way that he interacted with women, and especially those that were his coworkers. Little did they know, the person that appeared to be the Scotsman was far from it. In fact, many of the passersby had tried courting the man after the death of his late wife. They simply didn't know it.

"Mr. Castle?" The same petite redhead that had questioned him before had come back into the hallway where he sat upon an uncomfortable, wrought iron bench. "The Minister will see you now."

He scratched his head and followed the tiny woman to the Minister for Magic's office. While he knew that Ardus Castle had a notorious dandruff problem, he never expected to inherit it after a measly few swigs of Polyjuice Potion. Apparently, the wizard's body odor was a part of the package too.

The assistant beckoned him through the large door, raking her eyes over his features as he joined the Minister for Magic for their impromptu appointment. The look on the redhead's face said that she knew something was not quite right, but to his relief, she chose not to linger.

As soon as the two of them were alone, Hermione asked, "How did your meeting with Theodore go?"

Draco leaned against one of the bookshelves, careful to keep his distance for her nose's sake. "Theo was gone— _is_ gone."

"What do you mean?" She tilted her head, cautiously.

"Exactly what I said," he replied. "I had a little chat with Pansy. Turns out she didn't just find the vase in Knockturn Alley as she so claimed. Millicent Bulstrode pawned it off on her."

"And what does that have to do with Theodore?"

"Millicent—she isn't the type to do something like that. Her dear old cousin may be, but Millicent is a homebody. Terrified of crowds ever since the war. Stays out of trouble and rarely leaves her house."

"She doesn't work?" Hermione asked, frowning.

"Her family is as wealthy as mine. Nobody ever expected her to work. So, assuming that she did not suddenly overcome her fear of public places, we have to infer that she wouldn't have just _left_. Someone put her under the Imperius Curse, and based on her _situation_ , a relative is the most likely culprit."

"Geraldine!" the Minister breathed.

"That was my guess as well," Draco concurred. He took a few steps towards her and ran a hand through the shaggy, greying hair that he was not used to sporting. "Granger, this little mission of ours just became a lot more dangerous. It may be best if you polish your wand of it and let me do the dirty work."

"I will not!" she exclaimed, slamming her hands on her desk. "You brought me into this, Draco, and we're going to finish it. _Together._ "

He closed his eyes. "Bulstrode isn't alone, you know. Everyone believes she's in charge of her little organization, and until today, I would've thought the same."

"Who _is_ in charge, then? Not Theodore..."

"Theo? Merlin no," Draco scoffed. "Theodore was picked up by one of her followers after they came looking for Pansy and the vase. Odds are they'll torture him until he gives up my name. Then, I'll be next."

Hermione took a shaky breath, then began to speak slowly, as though she were trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him. "Harry is on his way over there right now. This will be resolved before they even have the chance. He's very good, Draco. If he can get rid of Voldemort—"

"He isn't prepared. Not for these men." Draco gave her a dark look. He was not about to trust Harry Potter with his fate. "If he went in looking for a fight with Bulstrode and a few underage witches, he's going to get a nasty shock. He doesn't have you, Weasley, or Longbottom this time."

"But _who_ , Draco? _Who_ is so terrifying?"

He studied her for a moment, unsure if she was prepared for the truth. When they were young, she had been such a brave witch, but they were not teenagers anymore. They were middle-aged, they were parents, and most importantly, they were far too old to be dueling Death Eaters. The woman had done her fair share of sacrifice, and the more she knew, the more likely she was to risk her life again. Perhaps, he had already said too much.

" _Tell_ me!"

Draco let out a heavy sigh. If he did not concede, she would press him until he did. For the sake of time, he decided to humor her. "Travers and Rowle."

"Oh, that's rubbish!" Hermione snorted. "They're in Azkaban."

"No," Draco corrected her. "Two _Muggles_ are in Azkaban. Bulstrode paid off the guards to make the swap."

Her jaw dropped. "But they couldn't possibly be getting Polyjuice in there..."

"They don't have to. The guards will as long as Bulstrode keeps their pockets full."

Hermione massaged her temples. "Okay, so let me make sure I'm hearing you right. If Harry fails, we may have to worry about Iadeth Travers and Thorfinn Rowle."

"Hermione, like I said, you can get out now," he reminded her, squatting down to rest his elbows on her desk. "I'm an Occlumens. They won't find out about you."

"And like _I_ said, I will not let you do this alone. They want it for a reason. Some part of Bellatrix's magic lives within that vase and if they asked Bulstrode to break them out of Azkaban to get their hands on it, it has to be even more dangerous than we thought. We have to get rid of it," she asserted. Leaning towards him she added, "This wouldn't be the first time I've had to run from Death Eaters to destroy Dark artifacts."

"You could lose your job," he pressed, softly, leveling his gaze with hers. "We could both end up in Azkaban."

"I already suggested we leave it in the ocean and you said no. Don't back out _now_."

"This is _Azkaban_ we're talking about, Granger!"

"And last time it was possible death. The time before that it was _certain_ death. I can handle whatever comes my way, Draco. I'm a grown woman," she snapped, folding her arms. "Besides, I've already done something that could send me to Azkaban."

He furrowed his brow, scratching his itchy scalp again. "I mean, seeing my collection is hardly more than a misdemeanor. I doubt you'd even have to stand trial. Probably just a few uncomfortable interviews with the _Prophet_."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I've done something else. Something bad."

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about, Granger?"

Hermione's features were pinched together as she seemingly held back tears. She gulped and gestured a book on her desk. "Lenore Thomas. Head of the Department of Mysteries. She—she knew about your collection. She knew about _us_."

"She's a famous Seer. I can't say it surprises me. What about her?"

"Well I-I—" Hermione closed her eyes and pressed her palms to her forehead. "I obliviated her."

"You did _what?_ "

"I panicked!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "It was—she knew too much. I couldn't just let her have you arrested!"

Blood rushed to his ears. "Did anyone know you were going to see her?"

"My assistant," Hermione admitted, biting her lip. "She scheduled the meeting."

Draco groaned. "For being the brightest witch of your age, you sure seem to make a lot of poor decisions, Granger."

"Perhaps I do," she said, curtly, standing, "but all it means is that we're in this together now. Ministry and Death Eaters be damned."

"You're mad."

"Only for you." Half-smirking, she got onto her tiptoes and drew her face close to his. It only took seconds for her to pucker her nose and pull away. "I can't do this. Why did you have to come as _Ardus Castle?_ "

"It was the only Polyjuice I had!" he laughed. For a short moment, he had almost forgotten how serious their situation was. "I didn't realize it'd come with the stench and the dandruff."

She giggled. "Well, I guess we need to figure out where we're going to do this thing, then."

"I mean, I _do_ have a bedroom, if you can give me a couple of hours to lose the creep-suit." He winked at her, though he had a feeling it did not have as much of an effect as it would if he had been his usual self.

"You know what I mean," she said, rolling her eyes. As per usual, Hermione Granger was all business when she needed to be.

"Right. Well, Pansy didn't give me any leads. She was a bit too focused on her husband being held hostage."

"Understandably."

"Do you have any ideas? Any Muggle parks we might have luck in?" He did not like the idea of subjecting Muggles to the Dark Arts, but it seemed that Hermione was already practiced when it came to unlawful obliviating. "Somewhere outside of London."

She tapped her chin. "Hmmm... Well, there _is_ this place in Wales."

"Wales is good," Draco replied. "As far as I know, the usual suspects haven't gone gallivanting around there since the nineties."

"Could you confirm that with Pansy? You could send her an owl from the Owlery before your potion wears off. We stopped tracking Ministry owls' whereabouts ages back."

"Doubt it. She isn't happy that I won't turn the vase over to Bulstrode and her lot," he confessed. "Thinks I ought to wipe my hands clean of it so they'll bring Theo back. She's always been a bit of a slow broomstick, but I didn't expect her to believe Death Eaters would just _give_ a hostage back."

"They'd kill him, wouldn't they?" Hermione concluded, sadly. "If you gave them the vase, they'd kill Theodore."

"And me."

Her eyes sparkled with melancholy. "I suppose we'll be going to Wales and hoping for the best, then."

"It's all we can do."

The pull of morphing flesh reminded Draco that he had a time limit. Her worried gaze was drawn to his hairline. "You're looking a bit blond, dear." She pulled her wand and gave it a flick. "This will get you by for fifteen minutes or so. You'll want to get out as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, your arm will keep you from Disapparating in my office. Sorry—wards."

Draco pursed his lips. Even after so many years, the Dark Mark still burdened him.  
  


* * *

  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a place for learning. Unfortunately, it was also a place for gossip. After the _Daily Prophet_ made its afternoon rounds, Rose Granger-Weasley found herself surrounded by classmates, all of them blurting question after question. It was not the first time, and she highly doubted that it would be the last.

"He attacked your _uncle?_ " a fourth-year from Hufflepuff giggled.

"Isn't he a drunk?" Mildred Spinnet chimed.

Alroy Finnigan nodded. "Explains why he didn't remember doing it."

Unable to take it any longer, Rose pushed her plate away, swung her legs over the bench, and stormed out of the Great Hall. Whispers dissipated the further she walked, so she kept moving until she accidentally shouldered a rather grumpy-looking Professor Macmillan. She mumbled an apology and turned down the familiar corridor.

Far away from any lunching students or professors stood a lonesome statue that Rose had come to know quite well. In fact, she had been visiting the statue every day since her friends were released from the hospital wing.

"Rosie darling," the buxom woman cooed, clasping her elegant, bejeweled hands together. "I'm afraid I can't let you in without the password."

"Hag cackle."

The statue grinned and slid away from the wall. Stones rapidly moved one-by-one, until finally, a familiar green door with a silver knocker was fully exposed. Rose let out a sigh of relief and knocked.

A moment passed. Then, the door creaked open and a familiar pair of grey eyes were staring back at her. Rose offered a weak smile and waggled her fingers. "Just me."

Sharp, pale features softened and the boy opened the door wider. "Welcome back." He waved her inside, book in hand, before retreating to his bed once more.

She stepped into the small dormitory. "Afternoon, Scorpius."

His nose was already buried in the book again.

"Hey, Rose!" Albus exclaimed, grinning from his spot on his bed. He gestured a pile of sugar quills that were on the mattress beside him. "Want one?"

Sighing, Rose made her way across the room and accepted a bright pink sugar quill. She tore open the transparent plastic and placed the sticky feathers between her lips. "Thanks."

"Reckon you came down here to get away from all the rumors, eh?" Albus asked between licks to his sugar quill. "I saw the _Prophet_."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Albus shrugged. "Can't blame you." He lay on his back. "You know, I've gotten pretty used to this whole private dorm thing. Don't think I'll be able to go back to the dungeons after this."

"Must be nice," Rose grumbled, looking around the small room, which was decorated in Quidditch posters, bookshelves, and accented with blankets of emerald and silver. "I'm sure I'll have to listen to Mildred Spinnet and Bryony Wilson talk about my dad all night."

"Doubt it," Albus laughed. His lips made a popping sound as he sucked on the sugar quill again. "Bethany Zabini found out Scorpius likes her."

Suddenly, Scorpius was not so interested in his book. "Only because you _told_ her!"

"She kept _looking_ at you," Albus defended himself. "I thought she liked you back!"

" _Everyone_ keeps looking at me. I'm the House laughing stock!"

" _We're_ the House laughing stock," Albus corrected him. He tongued the quill again. "See, Rose? There are other things to talk about. Just mention Scorpius getting turned down in front of our entire Transfiguration class and I'm sure Spinnet and Wilson will find that to be _much_ more conversation-worthy."

Scorpius groaned.

"Maybe," Rose mumbled, though a small smile had grown on her lips. She knew that Scorpius had once taken interest in her, but she was glad to hear he had let go of the notion. In a way, she felt bad for him. He and Bethany Zabini would have been a good match. "I'll bet Hugo ends up with a month's detention with all the hexing he's going to be doing today."

"Probably. Last time my brother said something about your dad drinking too much, Hugo made bugs shoot out his ears."

"I heard about that. Wish I could've seen it." Rose had never particularly liked her cousin, James.

"You ought to've. James was screaming like a first-year girl." Albus turned to look at his cousin. "Why _did_ your dad need Cupid Crystals?"

Rose sighed. She had asked herself the same question. "I don't know for sure, but I'll bet they were for my mum."

"But they're married."

"I guess. I don't think she wants to be married to him, though. I can't say I'd blame her."

"What makes you think that? The whole Christmas holiday thing?"

"I dunno. Maybe. I think she's wanted to leave him for a long while now."

"You think she will?" Albus looked concerned.

Rose shrugged and bit into her sugar quill. "Doubt it. She's stubborn."  
  


* * *

  
The line for the fireplaces was long, but after a difficult few days, Hermione Granger was far too exhausted to Apparate. Rather than risking a splinch, she impatiently waited behind the many antsy Ministry employees, many of which were surprised to see her. A middle-aged wizard that she did not recognize offered to let her cut in front of him, and though the offer was tempting, she declined.

After what felt like hours, Hermione finally took a handful of Floo powder and stepped into one of the many fireplaces. She shouted her destination and with a drop of the powder, she dizzily landed in the Potters' sitting room fireplace. Shaking the ash from her hair, she stepped out onto the rug.

The house was dark. The only sign of life was a screeching Della, who would continue raising a ruckus until Harry's arrival. Hermione finally understood why Ginny complained whenever her husband was gone. The bird was a menace.

Assuming that her sister-in-law had left (undoubtedly to escape Della's high-pitched cries), she slipped into the kitchen and made herself a cup of chamomile tea. Her mind was filled to the brim with terrible thoughts, and sleep was the only way that she would escape her many insecurities about the next day.

Tea in hand, she climbed the stairs and crossed the hallway to the spare room where Harry and Ginny had been gracious enough to let her stay. When she noticed that there was light pouring through the crack between the door and the carpet, she swallowed thickly and pulled out her wand.

Carefully, she flicked her wand and watched the door open before her. When it was just Ginny sitting on the bed, she let out a sigh of relief. She had been expecting the worst.

"You scared me!" Hermione admitted, tucking her wand into the inner pocket of her work robes. "I thought you'd gone out somewhere."

Ginny said nothing.

"Gin?" As Hermione got closer, she realized that her sister-in-law had a stack of papers on the bed beside her. She softly set her teacup on the corner bureau. "What's going on?"

The redhead looked up at her, eyes glazed over with an emotion that Hermione could not place. "I could ask you the same thing."

Hermione's eyes raked over the documents beside her, and she realized what it was that had made Ginny so upset. The younger witch had found the divorce papers.

"Gin—"

"I thought this was just a trial sort of thing," Ginny whispered, "but you're divorcing him. You're really divorcing him."

With a heavy sigh, Hermione sat down beside her. Ginny grimaced as she felt the weight on the bed.

"I have to. We just aren't good for each other."

"And when did you plan on telling me?" Ginny hissed. "I'm letting you stay in my house and you're trying to divorce my brother? You have to know how this is going to affect him! He already drinks like a merman!"

"I haven't told anyone," Hermione grumbled, though it was not true.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "You aren't a very good liar, Hermione. I don't think it's very wise of you to make it a habit the way that you have. Eventually, you're going to pay for it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the brunette said, airily, though every alarm in her head was sounding.

"You may be able to play this game with Harry, but don't think you're getting one over on me."

Hermione fixed her eyes on the floor. Keeping up with her many charades was growing tiring. All she could do was hope that her world would become a bit more normal as soon as the vase was destroyed and her divorce was finalized. Life with Ron had been miserable, but at least it was predictable.

"When I first joined the Harpies, Mum wasn't very supportive, you know," Ginny said after a brutally long silence. "She thought I was absolutely loony. 'You could fall and _die_ , you know!' I almost turned down the position just to stop all the Howlers she'd been sending."

Hermione wasn't sure what Mrs. Weasley had to do with her divorce, but she was happy for the change of subject matter.

"Harry and George kept telling me she'd come around, but it was Ron that convinced me to accept the offer in the end," Ginny continued. "Reminded me that Mum also reacted like that when I stubbed my toe when I was six, and when Fred put Muggle glue in my hair when I was eight. If it weren't for him, I might've ended up working for the Ministry or something else just as boring."

Hermione ignored the comment regarding her career choice. "You know, just because I want a divorce doesn't mean that Ron's a bad person. We just aren't good for each other."

Her sister-in-law had a calculating look on her face before she finally found the courage to ask, "Who is then?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who _is_ good for you?" Ginny asked again. "You come in late. You lie about where you are and who you're going with. You look positively giddy half the time and dreadfully stressed the other half of the time. The Hermione I know wouldn't be so happy about getting a divorce."

"Well I am," Hermione answered all too quickly. Ginny eyed her and she cleared her throat. "I mean, it's a new chapter, right? It will be good for everyone in the end. Ron will have time to work on himself. I'll have time to focus on my career. The kids might not understand at first, but once Ron starts getting better they'll realize it was all for the best..."

Ginny sighed. "I know you aren't telling me everything—but I do hope you're right." She sunk the heels of her hands into her thighs and stood. "I suppose I ought to go put a muffling charm on Della for the evening. I can't promise it'll stop her, though. Somehow she's loud enough to break through them until she begins to lose her squawk, and that won't last long. As soon as she sees Harry with a packed bag, she becomes a bit of a Banshee."

"I imagine it's quieter in here if you need to bunk with me."

Ginny stopped at the doorframe. "That's okay. Thank you, though."

"Any time. Thank you for—erm—everything, Gin. I mean it."

Ginny nodded. She wheeled around to walk out of the room, only to stop again and look her sister-in-law dead in the eye. "Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"Before you do anything...rash, please just be sure it's what you really want to do. Ron is a git, but he loves you, y'know."

Hermione drew in a shaky breath. "I know."

The door clicked shut and Ginny's heavy footsteps could be heard heading down the hall. Exasperated, Hermione summoned her tea and took a long drink before setting it down on the nightstand. Hoping to forget about Ronald Weasley and cursed vases, even if only for a night, she charmed away the divorce papers and lay on her back, her wand set across her stomach and her hair haloing around the pillow.

Little did she know, a small beetle sat upon the windowsill, watching her every move.


	34. Destructively

Downtown London was bustling. Muggles were trodding up and down the sidewalk, some drunk (despite the early hour), some with half a dozen shopping bags, and some impatiently waiting in front of a rather popular fish and chip shop. None of them could be bothered to notice a dark-haired woman sitting on a bench, newspaper in hand. After all, she looked no different from anyone else.

Just as they paid the woman no mind, they paid no mind to the elderly man that suddenly appeared beside her. Muggles were, after all, quite unaware of their surroundings. They were too busy pawing at greasy food and their constantly buzzing gadgets to notice much of anything.

"Father," the woman acknowledged him, keeping her eyes on the Muggle newspaper.

"My sweet Pansy," the narrow-lipped man replied, intertwining his liver-spotted fingers. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Pansy Nott inconspicuously glanced at a rowdy group of young women to her left. One fell to the ground in a fit of giggles, and as she tugged her dress down to cover her privates, Pansy continued. "Well, Father, I was hoping that we could have a little chat."

Mr. Parkinson's face was expressionless. "Surely, you could've met me in a less filthy place, then? It's hard to think with all of these _Muggles_ around."

"I don't think so. The subject matter is a bit—" She paused as a car horn interrupted her. "—grim."

"It can't be any grimmer than these...dare I say, _people._ "

"Nobody will see us here," Pansy explained, her gaze boring into an article about a Swanley man that saved a drowning Yorkshire Terrier. "What I am about to tell you—it's quite confidential. This is to be repeated to no one—not even Mother."

"Is that why you've transfigured your nose and put on those hideous glasses?"

"Yes. Promise me that this secret stays between us, Father. It is of the utmost importance."

Mr. Parkinson seemed unimpressed, but waved her on. "Very well, then."

Pansy cleared her throat. "I suppose you may have heard that Travers and Rowle have joined forces with Geraldine Bulstrode."

"I've heard that, yes," he replied, stiffly. "Quite a shame. They're barely fit to be kept alive, let alone roam free." Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, he added, "Pansy, I do hope this has nothing to do with those _animals_. I've told you to stay far, far away from people like that. Ever since the war—"

"Father, they're looking for something." Desperation emanated from her, but she did not dare put the newspaper down. "A vase."

"A vase," he repeated, slowly. "How do you know this?"

"Because it was in our home." Her hands were trembling. "On the mantlepiece in the ballroom. It whispered the most dreadful things, but oh, Father, it was absolutely stunning—"

The traffic jam before them had suddenly come to a head when a car audibly bumped into the truck in front of it. Before Pansy could finish her sentence, several Londoners were laying on their horns. She mumbled a small One-Way Transparency Charm. Travers and Rowle had minions everywhere, and she would not be surprised if some of them had enchanted automobiles in the city.

She let out a sigh of relief. The two men involved in the accident were rolling their windows down and neither of them appeared to be anything more than common Muggles.

"Ye fuckin' hit me, ye wanker!"

"Oh, bugger off! It's a traffic jam! Barely even nudged ya!"

The first man stepped out of his truck, slamming the door behind him. While he continued to curse, Pansy turned to her father. His slim lips had disappeared as he pressed them together, clearly pondering everything that she had already told him.

"Where did you find this vase?"

"Millicent Bulstrode. She's an old friend, so I thought nothing of it, of course... Then, they came looking for me," she whispered, holding back tears. "A-and Theo had me hide. I heard a struggle and once it was over—"

"Ye really bollocksed up, mate! Look at my bloody bumper! There's a scratch!"

"They—" Pansy started again.

"That's no scratch!" the other man shouted from his window. "Bet ya can rub that out with a bit o' elbow grease! Now, get back in your car and drive, ya tosser! You're blockin' traffic!"

Growing irate, Pansy shouted, " _Once it was over_ , they took him! They took him, Father! My darling Theodore..."

"After all I told you after the war, you _still_ got involved with the Dark Arts," he growled. "I should've known as much when you married that Nott boy. He's just like his father."

"It wasn't his fault!" the witch shrieked, earning several glares from Muggle passersby. She lowered her voice. " _I'm_ the one that brought it home. _I'm_ the one they wanted."

Mr. Parkinson raised his flat, silver brows. "Excuse me, daughter, if I am being daft, but why couldn't your husband simply give them the vase and be done with it? Even the likes of Travers and Rowle would not want to become enemies of the Parkinson and Nott families. That much, I am sure of."

Another Muggle had joined in on the screaming in the road. "Move your feckin' arse!"

Pansy glared at the yelling woman through the newspaper that was transparent to only her. "If I _had_ the vase, that might be an option. Unfortunately, I do not."

"If you don't have it, who does?"

"Draco Malfoy." She sighed, folding the newspaper and putting it on her lap. If Travers and Rowle were going to show up, they would have already done so. "He wants to destroy it. Soon, I imagine."

"Ah." The meeting amongst Muggles was finally beginning to make sense. "Lucius's son. He has become a bit of a do-gooder over the years, hasn't he? Even befriended that Mudblood Minister, according to the _Prophet_. Not much like _his_ father at all."

Pansy grimaced as the honking continued. "Do-gooder or not, I can't be out trying to stop him. They'll kill me if they find me and Theo's time is limited at best. That is why I need you to find Draco. Find Draco and stop him from destroying the vase."

Mr. Parkinson met his daughter's eyes for the first time that afternoon. "Draco Malfoy is no idiot. If he has something that Bulstrode and her cronies are after, he will be nearly impossible to find."

"I know," she whispered, her eyes tearing up, "but I need you to try. Find him and get the vase back. It's the only way."

Several Muggles waiting in front of the chippy were staring at the two of them, disgust etched into their features. Pansy wondered if they had heard part of the conversation, then brushed away the notion. They would not understand a word of it, even if they heard everything. They probably thought it was some bizarre type of performance art.

Mr. Parkinson cast a muffling charm and drew in a deep breath. "You are asking a large favor, my darling Pansy. If Travers and Rowle really want this vase, they're going to be five steps ahead of me, and I wouldn't be surprised if Draco Malfoy is five steps ahead of _them_."

"Please," she begged, putting a hand on his. "You're my only hope. I don't know how I'd go on without him."

Mr. Parkinson glanced at the crowd of whispering Muggles. "And you understand the possible consequences?"

"I have faith that you can avoid such things, Father."

He flared his nostrils. "Very well. I will do what I can."

Pansy closed her eyes as relief washed over her. "Thank you, Father." She threw her arms around his neck, tears brimming. "Thank you."

"Anything for my little flower," he murmured, patting her on the back. After a short moment, he pulled away and looked at the Muggles again. "We've made a spectacle, it seems. We ought to find a loo to Apparate from."

* * *

Meetings with Madelyn MacBain were fruitless. While she stammered on about the Minister for Magic, Gob Strothers scribbled notes, rolling his eyes whenever she made an excuse for her own incompetence. It had not been all that long since she agreed to keep an eye on her boss, but it seemed like she was not doing a very good job.

"If she was doing what she's supposed to be doing, there wouldn't be a ruddy _Daily Prophet_ article saying just the opposite! Listen, MacBain, I didn't expect much out of you, but it wasn't so long ago that you nearly had a spine. What happened since then?" he asked, leering at her from between two stacks of magazines and newspapers. "All you had to do was make sure she did her job and you couldn't even manage _that_ much."

"W-well, I-I thought sh-she had been," MacBain fumbled. "Sh-she's always b-buried in books and—and—"

"I don't want your excuses," Gob spat. "I want you to go make sure she gets all of her backlog completed _today_."

MacBain cleared her throat. "Y-yes, sir. I-I'll do my b-best."

"Your best hasn't been good enough so far. Do _better._ "

"Y-yes. Of c-c-course. I'll—I'll speak with h-her at once."

"Brilliant. Now get out of my office. I have work to do."

MacBain hurriedly shuffled between several books and newspapers to escape his office. Gob rubbed his temples as the door clicked shut behind her. The woman was supposed to make his job easier.

Although Gob found it to be quite a headache, Phoebe Humphries would be happy to see the news. The Auror wanted him to take the Minister's place, but he preferred the stability of the public relations world. Alas, Humphries would not give up so easily. The woman had gone so far as to befriend exaggerater extraordinaire, Rita Skeeter, and if she was willing to work with that blonde-headed rabble-rouser, she was willing to do anything.

Even if Gob wanted to become Minister for Magic (he didn't), he wanted nothing to do with Skeeter. The woman was bad news in every sense of the phrase, from her condescending little smirk to her constantly-hovering Quick-Quotes Quill. Gob did not underestimate the woman, but unlike his colleagues, he hardly found her to be a threat on her own. With Humphries, however, she was unpredictable. If the two of them had it their way, he would have his work cut out for him quite soon.

"You better keep Granger in line, MacBain," he muttered to himself.

If Skeeter released one of her infamous exposés, the Minister for Magic would need to prove that she was at least doing her job.

* * *

The dreadful room was anything but welcoming. Hermione's hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob, so much so that Draco stopped her and took hold of it himself. A gust of freezing air nipped at her skin and the stench of darkness wafted towards them.

She tangled her fingers with Draco's and rigidly followed him into the room of Dark artifacts. Her body was impossibly numb at first, and as she wove through the many standing shelves, a lump developed in her throat. Then, without warning, a dagger was being dragged across her skin over and over again. Before she could scream, it had become hundreds of daggers—piercing, slashing, ripping.

Evil thoughts riddled her mind, some of them urging her to aim terrible curses at her beau, while others told her to cast them at herself. Nevertheless, she moved forward. The warmth of Draco's hand gave her the strength she needed, and after what felt like several terrible hours, they were within reaching distance of the awful object.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Draco drawled, his left hand only inches from the vase.

Hermione knew what he meant. Since he had never been to the forest in Wales, she would have to Apparate them along with Bellatrix's artifact, and because the object weakened her, there was always a strong chance of splinching. The memory of Ron's mangled arm made her grimace. It had been quite a hideous sight.

"I-I'll be okay," she managed, adjusting the strap of her bottomless shoulder-bag.

She was not Apparating with an uncertified seventeen-year-old this time. Draco Malfoy was much older, certified, and in his own way, probably just as powerful as she was. Together, their matured magic could certainly make it to Wales with the shimmering, jewel-encrusted vase. After all, she had been saving her energy for that very moment.

"Ready, then?" he asked, squeezing her hand.

Hermione nodded, though something within her was telling her to run. "Ready."

Draco grabbed the vase and hugged it close to his side, wincing at its touch. Razors burned Hermione's skin, and with only the encouragement of her paramour's warm hand, she closed her eyes and Apparated.

The telltale pull of Apparition was accompanied not by simple discomfort, but by unfathomable agony. Hermione gritted her teeth together, and still, the trip that was nearly instant felt like days. Terrible, hacking pain clawed from beneath her skin, almost as though diseased, gnawing insects were trying to chew their way to the surface. The hand in hers that once felt so warm was cold and dead.

Then, it stopped.

The couple had toppled onto the hard ground, the vase and Hermione's bag landing just after them. Hermione thought she heard Draco grunt, but she could not be sure, as the sound hardly resonated with her. Ringing filled her ears, and though she was watching Draco's mouth move, she could not quite make out what he was saying.

"I can't—I can't hear you!"

Draco's lips moved again and he reached out to her. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Her skin felt like it was being pricked by thousands of needles, but her palm felt incredibly warm. There was a vague sensation of touch and it occurred to her that he was thumbing the lines of her hand. Why did he feel so far away?

_"Break it!"_ a miserable voice hissed. _"Snap it like a twig!"_

"Bellatrix!" she gasped, opening her eyes.

"It's me." His face was in full focus now. "She can't hurt you. It's just us."

Hermione inhaled and looked around. She was still cripplingly dizzy. Alas, she recognized the scene before her. Even in the darkness, she knew the mine just behind the concerned blond.

"Hafna Mine," she whispered, pointing to the dilapidated ruins. "We're here."

"You need to rest. We won't get very far if you go deaf again." He pulled his hand away and seized the vase from the ground beside him. " _I'll_ keep an eye on this. Stay here."

"No!" Hermione reached out for him as he stood. She tried to follow him, but her legs would not support her. "What if—what if someone is out there?"

"I can take care of myself, Granger."

Before she could argue any further, he cast a slew of protective enchantments upon her and marched off into the thick brush just beyond the mine. Without Draco or working legs, she could only wait.

The pain had gone away, yet tears still streamed down her cheeks.

* * *

The glowing white face of Draco Malfoy peeked out from the blackness of the forest. As heavy feet tromped down the rocky hillside, the familiar man grew closer, and upon seeing his face, Hermione let out a gasp. She stopped fumbling with her bag and dropped it in a soft patch of dirt.

"How are you feeling?" he mumbled, plopping onto the ground beside her.

"Better than you, I imagine," she replied, drawing her brows together. "You look—"

"I look _what?_ "

Scratches covered his clammy face and bruises of deep purple lined his grey eyes. Hermione could see where tree branches had caught the black fabric of his trousers and mud stains were the mark of blind stumbling through the twilit woods. She wasn't sure how long he had been gone, but judging by the looks of him, he had not handled the forest very well.

"You just look like you may need a rest." She rubbed her forehead, trying to ignore the clawing feeling of dread that she was beginning to feel again. Bellatrix's evil, midnight eyes bore into hers, and though she felt like she was on the floor beneath her aggressor again, she had to stay strong. Draco did it for her once. Now, it was her turn. "Here, give it to me. I'll take care of it."

"Like hell you will," Draco growled, holding the vase to his side. "You're lucky you didn't splinch the bloody both of us on the way here. You certainly shouldn't be destroying Dark artifacts all on your own."

"Draco, please just put it down," Hermione cooed, raking her digits across his face.

He narrowed his eyes, but as her hand found his, he let the vase fall into the plush grass and pulled her close to him. She buried her face in his neck, doing all that she could to ignore the abominable voices surrounding the both of them.

"I never should have dragged you into this." His long fingers combed through her bushy hair. "If I knew it was going to be this dangerous—"

"I can handle dangerous," Hermione said, gravely. "I'm not made of glass."

" _Can_ doesn't mean _should._ I should've taken care of this myself. It's my burden to bear."

"Draco Malfoy, if I found out you did this on your own, I never would've forgiven you. You would've gotten caught and I'd be seeing you in a Ministry courtroom. Besides, my past with Bellatrix is what will make this whole thing work. You said it yourself. You'd get nowhere without me."

"How modest of you." He rolled his eyes.

Hermione chuckled, nearly forgetting about the gnawing words that Bellatrix's vase hissed each and every second. "Do you think you can cast a Patronus?"

Draco looked down at her and sucked in his cheeks. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"We can make camp and wait until morning," Hermione suggested, although she was not convinced that it would help. She pulled her hand away so she could rifle through the bag once more, despite the obvious consequences. "Everything we'd need is in here. I was actually looking for some matches just a little bit ago. So we don't have to waste any energy."

"Matches?"

"Muggles start fires with them," she elaborated. "We had to try turning them to needles in Transfiguration class in school. Surely, you remember?"

"I know what they _do_. Still, I don't need _Muggle_ fire."

"You love those satin trousers of yours and _those_ are a Muggle invention."

"But I bought these at Twilfitt and Tattings."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Draco, no matter how reformed he was, was still a Malfoy, and when Dark Magic reared its ugly head, his upbringing showed. "Yes, but—oh, nevermind. The point _is_ , we can get you some rest—"

"No," Draco insisted. "We shouldn't linger here any longer—not when they're looking for it. It must be tonight."

"Fine then. But drink some water first," she said, pulling a canteen from her bag. "You need to recharge."

Draco accepted the canteen and took a long, replenishing swig. Color returned to the apples of his cheeks and his grey eyes suddenly seemed much less cloudy. "Are you ready?" He wiped his mouth and handed the canteen back to her.

"I think so."

She graciously drank and dropped the canteen into her bottomless bag before scrambling to her feet. Draco winced as he tried to stand, so she held out a hand to pull him up. Bellatrix's words lacerated every bit of Hermione's mind, and in that moment of fear, Draco grabbing her hand was her only solace. The voice disappeared, and she realized that was the only way they would be successful.

"Don't let go," she whispered, yanking her wand from her pocket.

He nodded, his eyes darting towards her briefly before jerking back to the vase. "I'm going to try removing the first layer of Dark Magic. It may get a bit ugly." And with that, he pulled out his wand.

Hermione nodded. Never had she seen an artifact that required layers of curse removal, but the vase was not a Horcrux. They did not have a basilisk fang or the Sword of Gryffindor. They had each other and their magic. That was it.

_"Tenebris moriatur!"_

A dreadful screech emitted from the vase and black smoke danced around its glinting emeralds. Hermione keeled over and covered her ears as the awful, piercing sound permeated the night air. Draco, however, held his composure, protectively kneeling to wrap an arm around her shoulders. They would never destroy it without one another. That much was clear.

"Get up, Granger. You have to get up."

She barely heard him through her clamped ears, but listened, nonetheless. Her umber eyes leveled with the diminishing smoke and she let out a gasp. It seemed as though some of its glimmering beauty had faded.

"It's patinaed."

"Dark Magic can preserve artifacts it lives within. Once it's gone, the object's age begins to show," he explained. "That bit of scuffing there means that it's lost some of its power."

Hermione pushed herself up onto her feet. The clawing feeling had softened, but it became quite obvious that the spell robbed her lover of his strength. The color had drained from his face again, leaving his alabaster skin stretched and translucent, much like it had been during their sixth year.

"Do we cast the Patronus now?"

He shook his head. "One more layer first—possibly two. I have a feeling it will fight harder this time."

"I should do it," she said, hurriedly.

"Are you familiar with the spell?"

"Familiar enough," she replied, pointing her wand directly at the vase. _"Tenebris moriatur!"_

Draco was right. Terrible clouds of black poured from the vase once more, except this time, it was not accompanied by a mere shriek. Instead, the high-pitched, bloodcurdling sound of Voldemort's hiss thrummed for a long, harrowing moment. Hermione froze. It had been all too long since she had heard the snakelike man's voice.

_"What a shame, Draco. Your pure blood is valueless now that you have commiserated with the Muggle-born, Hermione Granger. And how pitiful that you believe you can destroy the memory of your doting aunt. A shame to the House of Malfoy and the House of Black! Her power is greater than yours, Draco. Never will I forgive this. Never will you escape me."_

Draco's eyes were bloodshot as he fixed them upon the Dark Mark. To his horror, it was wriggling, just as it did when he was a young boy of sixteen.

"Ignore it, Draco!"

Yet, there was no ignoring it. He gritted his teeth together as the searing pain cut into his arm. If it was anything like the dire anguish he once described to her, there was nothing Hermione could do to make it better.

_"And you, Muggle-born, what would Harry Potter think? What would your husband, Ronald Weasley, think? You have abandoned your family for a Death Eater. How very_ traitorous _of you. Not to mention, Draco's parents! I'm sure Lucius was impressed by your strange..._ union _."_ Voldemort let out a disturbing laugh. _"Ah! But he doesn't know yet, does he? Are you ashamed of her, Draco? You were afraid to tell him back then, and you are still afraid of him now. What a pity. Scared of a coward like Lucius Malfoy! No wonder you want to be rid of the last of my most loyal follower. You have done away with our lovely daughter, and now you want to finish the job! Unfortunately, Draco, Bellatrix_ thrives _on fear. Even in death, her power grows stronger—stronger than you have ever been or ever will be. You will fail, Draco. You will fail, and you will die."_

Hermione clenched her jaw. "It's not real, Draco! You _must_ ignore him!"

_"Not real, you say? Ah, but the magic is very real, Hermione Granger. Look at the way it tears your dear Draco apart. Look at the way it terrorizes him."_

She held tightly onto Draco's hand. "He's dead, Draco," she reminded him, leaning towards his ear. "He can't hurt you."

_"Can't hurt him?"_ he cackled. _"Can't hurt him! How about we put that claim to the test, then, Miss Granger._ Crucio! _"_

Before Hermione could stop it, Draco had collapsed. He writhed in misery, howling as the Unforgivable Curse assaulted his already weak frame. A sob emitted from Hermione's throat and she dropped to her knees, cradling his head in her lap. Wiping the sweat from his brow, she cried, "Draco! Draco, stay with me!"

_"A familiar scene, is it not? Except the tables were turned, weren't they, Miss Granger? He watched you from afar while Bellatrix tortured you. Truly a sad, pitiful boy. How unfortunate he has grown into a sad, pitiful man."_

"SHUT UP!"

_"As you wish, Hermione Granger, but I will do you the favor of warning you: the vase will destroy Mr. Malfoy and yourself. If you know what is good for you, you will give up before it kills you both. How embarrassing it would be for your children if you were to die in the arms of a Death Eater. What a_ stain _to their reputation. A woman with your mind certainly has the sense to avoid such a tragedy. Choose your fate wisely, Miss Granger."_

The smoke dissipated, and a crying Hermione held Draco's pallid face in her trembling hands. "Are you okay?"

"Not the first time I've been blasted by the Cruciatus Curse," he snarled, sitting up. He wiped the blood from his lip. "It's time."

"Draco, you can't possibly—"

He pushed her away and stood, his face pulled into a sneer as he pointed his wand at the vase. "Stop fussing over me. I'm a grown man."

Hermione chewed on her lip. "What if what he said—what if it was true?"

Draco eyed her. "It isn't real, Granger. You said it yourself. Now, raise your wand."

"The curse—"

"Your—wand—Granger."

Hermione was unsure, but she trained her wand on the vase, anyway.

He gave her a nod. "On three."

"On three."

"One." Draco glanced at her. "Two." He looked back at the vase. "Three!"

_"Expecto Patronum!"_ they said in unison.

What Hermione was convinced would only be a wisp of blue was everything but. Two otters darted from the ends of their wands, dancing and frolicking just as they would in the wild. Her deep brown eyes widened as they leaped towards the vase.

Then, with a final sheet of dark smoke, everything went black.


	35. Worriedly

Two grey eyes snapped open. Heaving, a weary blond wizard sat up and took in his unfamiliar surroundings, jaw agape. The moon loomed overhead, an owl nearby emitted a loud hoot, and the soft whir of wind kissing the trees filled the cool winter air. Then, he saw the only thing that mattered.

"Granger!" he shouted, grabbing his wand and crawling towards her. Shaking her, he shouted again. "Granger, get up!"

Hermione's soft ringlets were splayed in the grass beneath her and her chest rose and fell with life. Still, she did not wake. Holding back tears, Draco Malfoy shook her a second time.

Her eyes flickered and she pressed her palm against her brow. Draco let out a sigh of relief. As he wrapped his long arms around her, he quietly wondered how long it had been since they were knocked unconscious.

"What happened?"

"The force must have knocked us out," Draco replied, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her eyes. "I woke up just a moment before you."

Hermione jerked away from him and scrambled to her feet, only bending down to retrieve her wand. Any reasonable person might have thought she had a good night of sleep and a pot of coffee, for someone that spent their evening fighting Dark magic most certainly should not have had the amount of energy that she seemed to have. " _Lumos!_ " She hurried towards the edge of Hafna Mine. "Where is it?"

"Look for ashes." Draco begrudgingly stood up and made his way to her. His muscles ached more and more with each step. "It's gone, Granger. You really think Death Eaters would've left our wands with us?"

"I don't know!" Hermione was clearly exasperated as she traipsed back and forth, searching for a sign of the destroyed vase. "If it was the Ministry, they could've just taken it as evidence so they can arrest us both later. You forget that Death Eaters aren't our _only_ concern."

In all of her panic, the witch missed a large pile of black ash.

"Stop worrying. Look to your left."

Hermione turned and let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank Merlin." She wiped her brow. "Bellatrix's magic—gone and never to return."

"It's been a long time coming." Draco glanced towards the silhouette of the forest. "We shouldn't linger here. We could have company at any moment."

"Can you Apparate?" she inquired, wiping the grass and wet soil from her bottom.

He nodded and held out his hand.  
  


* * *

  
The harsh tide lapped threateningly against the Cornish coast. It was a sight to behold, and an adventurous photographer seemed to agree as the flash of his camera captured the breathtaking image before him. To his misfortune, his stunning snapshot had been ruined by a group of five strangely-dressed men and women.

"Oi! Watch it, would you?" he scowled, brushing frozen chestnut locks from his face. "Tryna take a picture 'ere!"

A dark-haired man with an unsightly scar apologized for the group and hissed, "Walk _around_ next time. We don't need to be pissing off any Muggles, do we?"

Confused by the word "Muggle", the Cornish man picked up his tripod and moved several feet closer to the arguing party of five. He had never heard anyone call him such a thing, and if the group was insulting his Cornish ancestry, they were going to regret it.

"It's a lost cause!" one of the women exclaimed. "Bulstrode must've caught wind of us."

"She couldn't've," the man with the scar said. "We're just looking in the wrong places."

The photographer furrowed his brow. He had no idea who Bulstrode was, but it sounded as though she were in a heap of trouble. As he felt eyes on him, he pretended to fiddle with his camera.

"Where d'you reckon we look next then, _boss?_ " asked the largest member of the group.

"I don't know!"

The man with the scar was looking directly at the photographer. He watched the man pull out what appeared to be a polished twig, and after he uttered an unrecognizable word, their voices ceased. Bizarrely enough, they all still seemed to be moving their mouths. He drew his brows together. The crash of the waves was loud, so he had not gone deaf. Perplexed, the man moved his camera yet again, but still, he heard nothing.

Then, it dawned on him.

"Ain't you lot a bit old to be playin' these type o' games?" he snorted. "The weird clothes, the _Abracadabra_ nonsense. Some sort o' _Dungeons & Dragons_ type thing, innit?"

The group ignored him.

"My kid plays that with 'is friends. 'e's a bit airy-fairy if you ask me, but 'e's still only twelve. You lot, though, you ought to be findin' a new 'obby, yeah?"

Four of the five looked quite confused, but the man with the scar plodded towards him. "We quite like our game, thanks. If you could just leave us alone, we'd appreciate it."

The photographer nearly asked how one acquires such a unique scar, but decided against it. After all, it would be quite rude. "You're the one that called me Muggle. Some sort o' nasty word for Cornish folk, is it?"

The man narrowed his eyes, calculatingly. "I meant no offense. It's just a word for non-magical people in our—in our _game_."

"Pah! Silly word. Surely, you can think of somethin' better than that."

With a strange sort of smile, the man replied, "We'll consider it. Have a nice day, sir."

"Yeah. Yeah, you too."

With that, the man rejoined his group and marched them along the coastline, still arguing about the details of their game. The photographer had no idea who Bulstrode was, but by the sounds of it, there were other adults pretending to be magical creatures too. So, while the five men and women bolstered away, he heaved his tripod and camera back to his original spot and muttered his disapproval. It was all that he could do.  
  


* * *

  
The ink staining the Minister for Magic's hand was marking every parchment she touched. Too fatigued to fix the documents, she piled them high atop her desk, hoping that nobody would ask why she had turned in such sloppy work. After all, she was happy to be working again. For the first time in a while, things almost felt normal.

She took the Floo from Draco Malfoy's cottage earlier that morning, too tired to trust herself during Apparition. To her dismay, Della's incessant racket made it quite a task to sneak into the Potters' home undetected. Wide-awake, Ginny sat on the colorful bedspread in the spare room, a cup of tea in hand. As usual, she was quick to voice her disappointment.

_"It's four-thirty in the morning."_

_"Yes, I know. Ministry business," Hermione replied, keeping her head down. She cleared her throat. "I ought to get a few hours of sleep before work in the morning."_

_Ginny closed her eyes. "Hermione, I can't keep doing this with you. Please just stop_ lying _."_

_"I'm hardly lying. Something happened in the Department of Mysteries. All confidential, of course, but it required my attention since Harry is out."_

Hermione knew that Ginny had not believed her, but after the long night, she didn't care. Instead, she found a vial of Sleeping Draught and fell into a deep slumber until she had to go to work.

Much like Muggle sleep aids, the potion left her feeling groggy. Even though it was nearly one in the afternoon, she still felt like she was in a bit of a fog, and as most do when they feel such a way, she filled her coffee cup. Over and over, she filled it, emptying it quickly, only to fill it again. It was not until her signature was completely illegible that she realized she had drunk at least seven cups. That much caffeine would affect anyone, and as Hermione was only human, her body told her it was time to visit the loo.

Despite the numerous helpings of dark roast, she was still exhausted. The lavatory seemed all too far away as she trudged down the long hallway, her bloodshot eyes ricocheting from wall to wall, searching for a door and a single word. Once upon a time, the Minister for Magic would have had her own private restroom, but she had it removed to make room for her books. At that moment, she was mentally cursing her former self for making such a decision.

It was the mumblings of passersby that made her go white in the face.

"Who knows? Thomas hasn't shown up to work," Niamh Murphy said. "We can't do anything without her signature."

"So we wait, then?"

"We have to."

Hermione's stomach churned, but it was not from the coffee. She quickened her pace.

Seconds later, she opened the door to the women's restroom and snaked through the small, winding hallway. To her glee, it was empty, and she was able to peacefully close herself in a stall.

As she sat on the toilet and relieved herself, she dug her elbows into her knees and cradled her head. Somehow, in all of the commotion, she had nearly forgotten about everything else that still stood in their way. Not only had she erased Lenore Thomas's memory, but Draco was still being hunted by Death Eaters, she still had to face her husband, and the Ministry of Magic still had grounds to arrest the man she cared most about. She was delusional to think it would all disappear once Bellatrix's vase was destroyed. Perhaps they would never overcome all of the obstacles before them.

It was long after she emptied her bladder that she heard the bathroom door creak open. Clicking heels wove through the zigzagging hallway, and to her horror, a familiar blonde stepped in front of the mirror across from her stall. Judging by the woman's taut face, she had taken her fair share of illegal youthening potions. After all, she appeared to be Hermione's age, though she was almost thirty years her senior.

With a giggle and a twirl of her wand, the pale witch was shrouded in a cloud of powder. Hermione made a face. The last thing the woman needed was more makeup.

The ritual seemed to last all too long, and as Hermione peeked at her pocket watch, it became clear she could not wait it out any longer. Annoyed, she fixed her skirt, flushed the toilet, and unlocked the stall.

"Minister!" the red-lipped woman exclaimed, her hands idle as an enchanted comb teased her platinum curls. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Rita." Hermione walked to the sink furthest from the reporter and turned on the faucet.

"You sure were in that stall for a long time," Rita Skeeter said coolly, crossing her arms. A brush swirled across the apples of her snowy cheeks. "Surely, you weren't experiencing anything _embarrassing._ "

"Of course not!" Hermione defended herself, lathering pumpkin soap in her overworked hands. "I just had a bit of a headache."

"Any reason _why?_ "

Hermione turned the faucet off. "Drank too much coffee is all. I'm feeling much better now."

"Ah, I prefer tea, myself," Rita noted. A tissue blotted her lips. "No headaches to be had."

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Hermione sniffed, shaking her hands dry.

"Just visiting a friend. Hardly a crime."

"I find that hard to believe," Hermione muttered under her breath. She narrowed her eyes. "Behave yourself while you're here, Skeeter."

Rita grinned. "Always, Minister."  
  


* * *

  
What should have been a relaxed evening of celebrating was anything but. With her fingers tangled in her unruly hair, Hermione Granger paced back and forth in front of the blazing fireplace, sputtering on about her many worries. A pair of steel eyes were fixed upon her, silently willing her to sit down.

"I don't think you _understand_ , Draco. Lenore Thomas didn't show up to work. Who knows how far back that Memory Charm went! I was stressed when I cast it and I-I didn't focus very well—"

"Well, no one knows when it happened, right? If you act guilty, they'll suspect something. Stay calm and everything will be fine."

Hermione stopped and chewed on the inside of her cheek. "It's not just that. It's Skeeter too. She's up to something."

"As she always is," Draco said, pointedly. He reached out with one of his long arms and brushed her fingertips with his. "Just sit down, Granger. If Skeeter wanted something from you, I'm sure she'd be in your face with a camera and a Quick-Quote Quill like usual."

With a sigh, Hermione succumbed and plopped onto the sofa beside him. "It's Ron too. The paperwork is filled out on my end but I mean, how is he going to take it? He's always been a bit reactionary..."

" _That's_ an understatement," Draco muttered.

Hermione glared at him. "So you see my point. We have all these awful things revolving around the both of us. I don't know how you can just sit here and pretend everything is fine."

"I've been through much worse."

"I know," she sighed, laying her head on his shoulder. "But you wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me. I mean, wouldn't it just be easier if we never got into all of this?"

"If you're second-guessing all of this and you really want to go back to your boring little life with Weasley, be my bloody guest, but I really don't think you want to do that just for the sake of avoiding confrontation," Draco said, heatedly, pulling away. He looked down at her, his brows drawn together and his eyes cold. "My regrets with you are a far reach from everything that has happened in the past few months."

"It's not that I want to go back to Ron," she explained, sadly. "It's that I want this—" She gestured herself, and then him. "—to have a fighting chance. It's hard to believe that we do when everything is working against us."

"Everything has always been working against us, Granger," he growled. "That didn't stop us before."

She bit her lip and leveled her gaze with his. "You'll stay this time?"

"Will you?"

Nodding, she leaned forward and pressed her tentative lips to his. It was the only answer Draco needed. For a short moment, she melted into him and he coiled his tongue around hers, greedily exploring every crevice of her warm mouth. No potion could produce such a feeling. It was pure. It was real. It was all he craved, ever since he was a lovesick teenager.

"We should slow down," Hermione giggled, unable to control herself as he traced his lips along her neck.

"Why?"

Before she could answer, the brunette gladly accepted another passionate kiss from her paramour. She wrenched his mouth back open with her tongue and twisted her fingers in his hair, tugging in a way that forced a moan from his throat.

As Draco made a note that she tasted of peppermint, it occurred to him just how little affection they had shared since she had finally decided to leave her husband. The vase and all that came with it had become such a terrible distraction. Of course, it was not the first time that their place in the world distracted them.

_"Do you have any idea what Harry and Ron will think?"_

_"I couldn't care less," Draco spat, before pressing more kisses along her collarbone. "They know you spend time with me, do they not?"_

_"Yes, to_ study _," Hermione pointed out, pushing him away. She fixed the strap of her bra. "Look, maybe we can do this later when we're somewhere more private."_

_"Everyone snogs on Hogsmeade weekends."_

_"We are not_ everyone _and you know it. You're just drunk."_

_Draco sighed. Drunk, he was._

Years had gone by and as his time alive grew more and more scarce, he did not care about being a Malfoy. No matter how much the world forbade it, he would not give up on the woman he could never forget.

Winter raindrops were trickling against the windowpane, a comforting sound as the fireplace crackled in contrast. Her lips were just as warm and soft as he remembered, and in a moment of bravery, Draco slipped his fingers underneath her blouse. To his dismay, she pulled back.

"What is it _now?_ " he asked, a bit impatient. The problem between his legs ached to be resolved.

"That flash." Hermione was wide-eyed as she fixed her shirt. "Didn't you see it?"

"No, my eyes were closed. You know, as they tend to be when you're snogging someone."

"But—but it was there. There was a flash. I saw it."

"Lightning. It's raining. Merlin, Granger. Could you _be_ any more paranoid today?"

"It didn't look like lightning," she argued. "It was _blinding_."

"If you were blind, how could you tell?"

She groaned. "All I'm saying is that I think you should go outside and see if someone is out there."

Draco peered through the window, not keen on allowing anyone to see him in his disheveled state. Plus, his clothes were far too expensive to ruin. "Nobody is out there."

The thunder roared once more and Hermione pulled the curtains together. "Well, let's just be safe from now on, okay?"

"Haven't we always been? The last thing we need is a frizzy-headed brat with your brains and my legal record."

"Be _serious_ , Draco!"

He smirked. "Never."

There were a hundred reasons that he should be worrying exactly like she was, but even if it was just for one night, he needed to pretend that everything was fine. Even if it helped him none, perhaps, it could help her.


	36. Embarrassingly

"Bloody, stinking Malfoy!"

It was not how Hermione Granger pictured waking up that early Friday morning. Frankly, she thought that she was dreaming, so she rolled back onto her side and buried her face in the hideously yellow pillow. The comfort, regrettably, did not last long.

"I knew you wanted to divorce my brother, but _this_ , Hermione, _this_ I didn't see coming."

Groggy, Hermione rolled onto her back and peered up through squinting eyes. To her horror, a livid Ginevra Potter towered over her, a newspaper in hand and a squawking bird on her shoulder.

"I let you stay in my home and _this_ is how you repay me? I knew it was weird you were hanging out with that git. Congratulatory lunch, my arse," she spat, stopping only as Della loudly flapped her snow-white wings. "Do you have any idea what my brother is going to say about this? What a bloody broom ride that will be! 'Thanks for letting my cheating wife live with you, Gin. By the way, do you have Malfoy's address? I'd like to fucking murder him now.'"

"Gin, I don't—"

"Oh, don't give me that!" Ginny put a hand on her hip and tossed the newspaper on the bed. The bird cawed. "Go on! Have a look! I'm sure you'll have a reporter or ten asking about it when you get to work."

Mortified, Hermione reached for the newspaper and blinked a few times. Once the sleep had left the corners of her eyes, she saw the worst headline that she could possibly imagine. Beneath a photograph of her kissing Draco Malfoy, it read, "THE MINISTER AND THE MALFOY: SCANDAL OF THE CENTURY". When she saw the author's name, her heart sunk even further.

"Skeeter. Rita bloody Skeeter. I mean, surely you don't believe _her_."

Ginny was fuming. "Skeeter or not, a picture says a thousand words, and that picture says you've been having an affair with fucking Malfoy! We took you in and _this_ is what you've been off doing! Snogging—snogging _him!_ Of all people!"

"Please, just hear me out—"

"No. No more _hearing you out._ I stood up for you and come to find out, Ron was right the whole time!" Exasperated, she threw up her hands. "Bet you had a thing for him in school too. All those nasty articles about the two of you. You two all cozy 'studying'. We all chalked it up to bad press, but it wasn't bad press, was it?"

Hermione gulped. "Ginny, I—"

" _Was it?_ "

"Well, no, but please, just let me explain—"

"Don't bother," her sister-in-law breathed, closing her eyes. "What you see in him, I don't know, but I sure hope he was worth it. I reckon you'll be spending a lot more time together now that you've burned every fucking bridge you possibly could."

"You don't mean..." Hermione blinked back tears. "You wouldn't kick me out..."

"Oh, I would. I've hardly slept since Harry left, so now that this ruddy bird has finally warmed up to me—" She gestured Della, who was preening her feathers. "—I'm going to go take a _very_ long nap. When I wake up, I'd like for you and all of your things to be gone."

Hermione choked on her words for a moment before finally managing to say, "Gin, you—you can't be serious... Let's just talk for a moment. I'm sure we can sort it out..."

"You did this to yourself, Hermione. I'm sorry, but I've given you loads of chances to shape up and it seems you just keep digging a deeper and deeper hole for yourself."

The snowy owl let out one final squawk as she left the room on Ginny's shoulder. Dumbstruck, Hermione began to pack her things.  
  


* * *

  
Jeremy Preachwell was a tall, greasy-headed man, somehow both narrow-framed and round-bellied. In another life, he had been a soft-spoken boy from Hufflepuff House, destined to follow in his father's footsteps as a candymaker, but with time came change, and for Jeremy, change led him in a direction he never thought possible.

As he trudged through the cold mud, his wand pointed at the back of Theodore Nott's head, he wondered how he ended up in such a place. Of course, deep down, he knew exactly how he ended up there. Instead of helping his father make Badger Taffies like he always planned, he found himself pining after the beautiful Irina Petrov. Little did he know, love had its consequences.

_"I've never been someplace this nice before. My family, they do not have much gold," she said in a heavy accent, twirling spaghetti around her fork. Her cerulean orbs were bright. "Muggles eat this?"_

_"Considering this is a Muggle restaurant, I'd think so," Jeremy chuckled, cutting into the ravioli on his plate._

_She pushed her cinnamon locks behind her ear and glanced at a couple seated nearby."My father would not approve of me being here."_

_"Why not?" Jeremy asked, gaze wholly focused on her. Each word that fell from her lips was sugary sweet, and he lapped them up like the lovesick dog that he truly was._

_"He doesn't like Muggles very much." Her fork audibly scraped against her slightly-crooked teeth. "He says they are odd."_

_"Sure, they're a bit odd, but that's no reason to dislike them." Jeremy's jaw clicked while he chewed, a quirk that he desperately hoped she did not notice. "They just do things a bit differently than we do. No harm in that."_

_Giggling, she stabbed a meatball and pointed it at him. "You know, he probably wouldn't like_ you _very much either."_

_He frowned. "Why?"_

_"Well, you defend them, don't you? The Muggles. He doesn't like it when people defend them."_

_"And what about you? Does it bother_ you _that I defend them?" He took a sip of champagne._

_She smiled and shook her head. "No, it doesn't bother me at all."_

He never thought that one evening with the loveliest woman in the world could lead to anything, but to his amazement, it did. Unfortunately for him, falling in love with Irina Petrov meant coming to know her father, and Vitaly Petrov was even more awful than she made him sound.

"Where are you taking me?" Nott asked, annoyed.

"You'll see," Jeremy grunted, prodding the back of Nott's head with his wand. "Just keep it moving, yeah?"

"You know, Bulstrode might not like it very much if she finds out you led a bunch of Aurors right to her. I'd let you do it just for laughs if she wouldn't kill me too."

"It's not a good time to bluff, Nott." Jeremy shoved the wizard forward. "There's no getting out of this one."

Nott shrugged. "Your funeral. Well, _our_ funeral, I suppose. Let's just hope that Potter and his minions catch us before your boss does. Something tells me she would leave the dirty work up to Travers and Rowle, and I doubt they'll be very happy to hear you risked getting them sent back to Azkaban."

"Potter!" Jeremy chortled. "Funny stuff, Nott, funny stuff. Sadly, I'm not in the mood for comedy, right now, so I suggest you keep walking and quit making up nonsense about Aurors and Harry Potter. We have somewhere to be, and we aren't getting there any faster by chitchatting."

"Suit yourself, then. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I _said_ no more chitchat!" He kicked Nott in the back of the calf. "Now _move!_ "

Move, they did. They walked for what felt like miles, and by the time their feet were aching and bloodied, they were nearing their final destination. Perhaps, if Jeremy had not been so smug, he would have heard the snapping of twigs just behind them.  
  


* * *

  
Wine dribbled down the rather weak chin of the best public relations advisor in the Wizarding world. If someone saw him in such a state, they may have thought less of him, but conveniently, he was alone.

"The _Prophet_ , _Witch Weekly_ , international newspapers, there's no end to this one," he muttered to himself, leafing through an article from a French newspaper. "My God, I could just _choke_ her!"

Naturally, his office door had been knocked on dozens of times already that morning, so he was not surprised when it was knocked on again. His first instinct was to ignore it. Alas, the knocking didn't stop.

"Strothers! It's me! Humphries!"

"I'm _busy!_ "

The rapping continued. "Strothers! I'm serious! Open up!"

"I _told_ you already, I'm _busy!_ "

Then, without warning, the door flung open. Gob Strothers met her gaze through the many magazines and newspapers surrounding him, wondering what could be so important that she decided to force her way in.

"Bit early for wine, yeah?" the raven-haired woman said, shutting the door behind her. She stepped over a pile of books. "You'd think you'd want to be of sound mind with all that's going on today."

"If you were me, you'd be drinking too," he growled, fingering a magazine to his left. "It's everywhere across Europe and North America. Even bloody China's printing articles about it. China!"

Humphries shrugged and leaned against his desk, nearly toppling over a tall stack of papers. "This could still turn out okay for you, Strothers. The Minister's about to be in a _lot_ of hot water. When the public wants a replacement, it could be you—if you play your cards right."

Gob let out a derisive laugh. "Should've known you had something to do with this."

"Not _technically_ ," she sang, hovering over a handful of magazines, ranging from _Les Potins Magiques_ to _Czerwony Skandal._ The photograph was everywhere. "I am hardly responsible for what Skeeter publishes. Though I must say, it's quite impressive how quickly this made it across the globe. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, brilliant. Just what I needed. More work."

"I don't know why you're even bothering." She folded her arms. "You know she won't survive this Malfoy ordeal. The public will positively crucify her."

"Not if I have anything to say about it." He took another swig from the wine bottle beside him. "Now did you have any actual business or did you barge in just to try and get your way again?"

"It's almost like you aren't _hearing_ me!" Humphries exclaimed, exasperated. "You wouldn't have to work for that fraud anymore! You'd be at the top. A turning point in history after years of corrupt Magical leaders!"

"Fight the corruption by corrupting my way into office. Makes a load of sense, Humphries," he said, facetiously, picking up his quill once more. He dipped it in ink and scribbled down an idea. "Really, you are a visionary."

"But _this_ is for the greater good," Humphries insisted.

"Ha! The greater good?" Gob scoffed, writing rather rapidly. "Says who? You? Rita Skeeter? Hermione Granger, with all her faults, has done more for the Wizarding world than the last ten Ministers for Magic combined. You know it. I know it. Anyone with any _slight_ bit of a political sense knows it. It would be a _travesty_ to replace her. I may have entertained your little scheme before, but it isn't funny anymore, Phoebe. If I hear one more word about this, I may just have to have a little chat with Potter about treason charges."

She pursed her lips. "Have it your way, then. If you come to your senses, you know where to find me."

Before Gob could respond, she had left the room.

* * *

"Prob'ly the Imperius Curse," a sixth-year named Velita Nasser suggested. "Wouldn't be the first time Draco Malfoy used it, would it? We've all heard the story about that bartender from Hogsmeade!"

"No way! That's Amortentia if I ever saw it!" Charles Wilfrick argued. A tall boy in his seventh year, his voice echoed unlike anyone else's. "Just look at her!"

"What do you mean _'look at her''_? That's just how women look when they snog, not that _you'd_ know," Charles's twin brother, Niles, said. "She seems to be doing it all on her own, if you ask me."

"Yeah, well let's go ask Professor Widdle and then we'll _see_ who's right!"

"Rose, you know your mum." Velita leaned closer to the center of the circle. "Does she look funny? Potioned or cursed or anything?"

"Nothing's wrong with her! She's clearly enjoying it!" Rudy Quirke exclaimed. "I mean, did you even _read_ the article? She and Malfoy have been shagging since the nineties, apparent—BLOODY HELL! UNDO IT! WHATEVER YOU DID, UNDO IT, FOR MERLIN'S SAKE!"

The news had made its way around Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry all too quickly. Minerva McGonagall stormed into the Great Hall, determinedly plowing through the crowd of gossiping students. In the middle, Hugo Granger-Weasley and Albus Potter were pointing their wands at the circle of children surrounding them. Rose Granger-Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy stood beside them, jaws clenched.

"Off with you lot!" The headmaster shooed the crowd away. "Go on, then!"

"I can't!"

Her eyes widened when she noticed that there was a Ravenclaw student steadying himself against the wall. His knees were, quite clearly, backwards. "Mr. Quirke! Oh goodness me. McFarland!"

"Y-yes, Professor?" Tim McFarland, a fourth-year Hufflepuff, was staring at the scene in horror.

"Take Quirke to the hospital wing. Take Finch with you, if you need assistance."

With the help of Leopold Finch and Tim McFarland, Rudy Quirke hobbled away, loudly complaining about how hard it was to walk with "bollocksed-up kneecaps".

"Off with the rest of you! And _give me that!_ " She yanked the newspaper from Velita Nasser's grasp.

Many of the students grumbled, along with a few nasty remarks of the Slytherin persuasion. Ignoring them, Professor McGonagall looked at the four students that were left. It was the first time that she realized just how tall Scorpius Malfoy had grown to be.

"So, which one of you four is responsible for hexing Mr. Quirke?"

"Professor, it's not his fault!" Rose Granger-Weasley said as her brother's hand slowly raised. "Rudy was—he was talking about—"

"I heard the conversation, Miss Granger-Weasley. That doesn't mean I can allow this kind of behavior," Professor McGonagall skimmed over the four of them. "Mr. Potter, if you might excuse us, I'd like your cousins and Mr. Malfoy to follow me to my office."

"But Professor—"

"No 'buts', Potter."

As a swearing Albus Potter stormed in the opposite direction, Professor McGonagall led the others towards her office. Students whispered as they passed, but none of them dared to confront the Granger-Weasleys or Scorpius Malfoy in front of the former Transfiguration professor. She was, after all, one of the strictest headmasters to ever hold the position.

They reached the stairs and McGonagall shouted, "One-legged pixie!"

Their feet wobbled as the staircase creaked to life, slowly spinning upward until they reached the top of the tower. The three of them had not been in her office often, but every time that they were, everything was in perfect order. That day, on the other hand, it was quite a mess. Parchments and newspapers were strewn across her desk and a majestic eagle owl cawed loudly, shivering feathers all over the floor.

The headmaster sat down and steepled her fingers. "You three have had quite a morning, I imagine."

"That's an understatement," Hugo muttered, crossing his arms.

"Yes, well, I can't just have you hexing students for speaking on the matter. As the Minister for Magic, she's in the spotlight and people are bound to talk," McGonagall replied, hoarsely. "With that being said, I will let this one slide as I suspect it's been quite an emotional Friday. The news is, for lack of a better phrase, immensely shocking."

" _Shocking?_ " Rose repeated. "We're _scarred for life_ , Professor! I can't—I don't—she's our _mother!_ We haven't heard the end of it since the paper came in! What was he supposed to do? _Not_ stand up for himself?"

McGonagall had a response prepared, but the boy was frantic.

"I'll hex anyone that has _anything_ to say about my family. Give me all the detention you want. I don't care!"

"I understand, this is not an easy—" McGonagall started.

"D'you have any idea how our dad is going to react?" Hugo went on. "He's going to go mad!"

The headmaster narrowed her lips. "Both your mother and father were some of the best students to ever walk the halls of this school. The two of them are too bright to let the mad scribblings of Rita Skeeter cause too much concern, I trust."

"Mad scribblings?" Hugo repeated. "There's a _picture_. Does _photographic evidence_ mean nothing to you?"

"Well, your parents are more than equipped to—"

"Have you _seen_ our father in the past few years?" Rose huffed. "He's a mess! This is sure to send him over the edge. Just like my brother said, he's going to go mad."

"Yeah, he's mental," Hugo agreed. "He tries, but he's mental."

Professor McGonagall's eyes raked over Scorpius. The boy had been silent while his peers aired their grievances, and she was not sure what to make of it. "You haven't said much, Mr. Malfoy. How are you handling all of this?"

"I don't know."

"Surely, it's been difficult this morning. Professor Widdle and myself will be available if you need anything at all. We _do_ care. I hope you know that."

He shrugged. "Yeah, okay."

She sighed. "Well, let me know if you'd like to talk. For now, I need to see if Mr. Filch can confiscate today's paper. The last thing we need is that rubbish making the rounds for the rest of the year."

"I'll say," Rose mumbled.

"Off to your dorms, then. I'm excusing the three of you from classes for the rest of the day. If anyone else gives you a hard time, report it to your Head of House, yes?"

Hugo opened his mouth to argue, but Rose cut in. "Yes, Professor."

They went back to the staircase, leaving Minerva McGonagall to put out the fire that was the teenage gossip mill. It would be a feat even for one of the most powerful witches in the world.  
  


* * *

  
The morning from hell: it was the only way to describe the Minister for Magic's day insofar. A churning sense of dread had settled in the pit of her stomach, and no matter how many parchments she read, deconstructed, signed, and vetoed, she could not escape the awful feeling. She was practically homeless, on the verge of losing her position, and an embarrassment to her children. How could it get any worse?

Stacks of signed appeals were to her right, while the remaining unsigned parchments were to her left. As she thumbed through yet another lengthy proposition from Joslyn Horos, she could not help but wonder how her paramour's morning had been. Perhaps, he was not the Minister for Magic, but he was far from a nobody. Had reporters stormed his home in Willow Ale Court? Did Lucius Malfoy pay him an agonizing visit? Was he worried what his son might think? Questions spun round and round in her head. Alas, she was not able to ponder for very long, as she was interrupted by the sound she feared most: the telltale heavy-handed knock.

Knowing that there was no avoiding him, she lazily swished her wand and the door opened wide. Gob Strothers, tired and covered in wine stains, entered her grand office, just as she suspected he would. To her surprise, he did not start yelling at her right away.

"Tough morning?"

Raking her fingers through her tangled, sweaty locks, she replied, "Incredibly."

"I figured as much." He collapsed into the chair across from her and rubbed the side of his face. "You have to know what I came here to tell you."

"You think I should resign."

"Well, that's certainly an option," he admitted. "But, we don't _have_ to go that route. Not if you don't want to."

Hermione dropped her quill. "I'm listening."

"I pieced together a plan," Gob revealed with a sigh. "You may not like it, but you'd keep your job, and you'd even have most of the public on your side by the end of it."

"A plan." She was skeptical. "What is it?"

"The Imperius Curse." He clasped his hands together. "Malfoy has a past with it already. It's an easy sell."

"You want me to—you want me to say he _cursed_ me?" Appalled, she shook her head. "Absolutely not. There's no way in _hell_ I'm going to accuse him of something he didn't do. He's reformed, for Merlin's sake!"

"Do you want to keep your job?"

"Not at his expense!" Hermione hissed. "I won't do it. I'll resign before I do _that_."

Gob raised an eyebrow. "So that's your plan, then? Resign? Take all that you earned and throw it away over some bloody Death Eater? Brilliant. Glad I wasted my entire morning working up this Imperius angle."

"I've fought tooth and nail to oust all the corruption in this blasted place," she said, wagging her finger, entirely aware of the irony. "I am _not_ going to let someone else suffer for my mistakes. Besides, there's one option we really haven't explored, and I think we ought to."

He snorted. "And what's that?"

"The truth."

"The truth," Gob repeated, slowly. "Are you mad?"

"Perhaps, but the truth is a lot less messy than dragging someone through the mud that doesn't deserve it," she said, pointedly. "I've been separated from my husband for almost a week. I have divorce parchments at the ready. I'll sort that out today and then we can take the rest one step at a time."

"One step at a time," he breathed. "Granger, have you even _read_ Skeeter's story?"

"I've heard plenty," Hermione mumbled, thinking of her interaction with Ginny earlier that day.

"Well, I actually _have_ read it—in eighteen different bloody languages, mind you—and the 'one step at a time' approach _isn't_ the way to handle news of this caliber. This has to be nipped in the bum immediately, and it would be best if you aren't at fault when the new story breaks."

"But I _am_ at fault! I did this _on my own_ , and if I'm being honest, I have no intentions of stopping, either!"

Gob's jaw dropped. "You mean to tell me," he started, pausing for effect, "that you are going to continue seeing this—this _blighter?_ This _pariah?_ And you expect to keep your job? You _are_ mad! Barking mad!"

"He's not a pariah," Hermione said through gritted teeth.

"Minister, you need to listen to me. This will _not_ work," Gob warned. "They _will_ demand that you leave office and you will go down in history as one of the worst Ministers that Britain has ever seen. Do you understand? _You cannot have a public relationship with a Death Eater you had an extramarital affair with._ It really isn't Arithmancy."

"Well, it's this or nothing," she replied, stubbornly. "I'm not resigning and I'm not making up fibs about Unforgivable Curses. Either back me on this or step down as my public relations advisor. I've made my choice, Strothers."

He buried his face in his hands. "Granger, you've really put me in quite a position. I hope you know that."

"If something happens to me, I'll give you a gleaming recommendation. Just back me up when the questions start rolling in." She gave him a pleading look. " _Please._ "

"Nothing I can say will convince you _not_ to do this? You really won't even _entertain_ the idea of the Imperius Curse story?"

"I'm offended you even thought I'd consider it."

He sighed. "Fine, then. If I can't talk you out of it, I suppose I best prepare for it. Go get your divorce and prepare for the imminent press release. It's going to get ugly, Granger. If you keep office after _this_ , it'll be a bloody miracle."


	37. Terribly

The enchantments were strong. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had seen two wizards disappear behind them, yet he and his team could not seem to bring them down. Sweat poured down his face as they blasted the third wave of spells and he could not help but wonder if he should have brought a bigger team.

"Helluva shield they've put up here!" Vox shouted.

"It hasn't so much as _budged_ ," Beatty complained. She turned to look at her leader. "Potter! This isn't working!"

"Just keep your wands on it! It has to come down eventually!"

Harry Potter, of course, was not as confident as he pretended to be. He had never seen protective enchantments that could withstand that much magic.

"Bulstrode didn't do these herself," Vox said. "There's no way in hell!"

"Well, we know it wasn't _Preachwell_ ," Duncan replied. "The twit couldn't charm his way out of a potato sack!"

"Vox is right, though," Harry said. "Bulstrode couldn't have done this. Not on her own, anyway. We best be prepared for the possibility that she won't be the worst of our troubles once we get in there."

Duncan gulped. "You think she has more people working for her than we thought?"

"Well, we knew we didn't know all the names. Would be a bit presumptuous to think we knew the numbers." Durden put both his hands on his wand as his silvery destruction spell tore through the frigid air. "If this is the kind of work they're doing, I'll bet we're in for _quite_ an afternoon."

"Durden's right," Vox agreed. "She's got some able wands behind her."

"Any idea who?" Duncan inquired.

Vox shook his head. "No, but whoever it is, they're good. Really good."

* * *

Standing on the other side of the familiar door felt strange. Hermione Granger wrung her hands as she tried to work up the courage to knock. It was, after all, bound to be an awkward discussion.

After reassuring herself for the dozenth time, she reluctantly tapped her knuckles against the door.

It seemed far too long before she saw the knob turn. Her insides were in knots as the door slowly opened, and finally, through the dark crack between the outside and in, she saw her husband. His blue pools were red-rimmed and swollen, with circles so deep beneath them that she would have sworn he had been in a fistfight. The corner of his mouth was stained with what appeared to be chocolate, and even from a meter away, she could smell the stench of booze on his breath.

" _You!_ " he breathed, venom in his tone.

She wanted to comfort him. She wanted to make him understand. She wanted to go back in time so she could let him down easy. Alas, none of that could happen anymore.

"I know you're probably mad—"

" _Probably mad?_ " he repeated, bitterly. "Hermione, I'm _disgusted!_ Of all the bloody people in the world—"

"I know, I know," she interrupted, squeezing her eyes shut. "Look, can I just come in so we can talk?"

He stared at her for a moment, calculating whether or not he was open to the idea. Finally, he said, "Yeah, okay. In with you, then."

The wider that he opened the door, the worse the scene became. Hermione swallowed a gasp, as she knew that she was in no position to lecture him. Nevertheless, she could not help but wonder just how much he had been drinking ever since she left the week before. Bottles, some empty, some half-full, and some broken, littered the kitchen and living area, along with an obscene amount of wrappers and dishes that could be found everywhere from the counter to the carpet. The door slammed behind her and she jumped a little, though the sound was not any scarier than the sore sight that was once her home.

"Well?" He rounded on her, his eyes blacker than the pits of hell itself. "You have some explaining to do, I'd say!"

"I know," she managed to squeak, pulling her bag close to her side. "Look, Ron, I didn't mean for it to happen this way. I really didn't."

"Then what way _did_ you mean for it to happen?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Ron, you know I didn't—"

"Why are you here, Hermione?" he barked, towering over her. His eyes were bloodshot with unmatched rage as he balled his fists at his side and breathed the fumes of rum in her face. "You come here to beg for my forgiveness? The world's against you and you want to come home, now? Is that it?"

Hermione held back tears. "N-no. Ron, I just want to talk. Can't we talk? Like adults?"

"I don't know. Do adults cheat on their husband of almost twenty years with their childhood bullies?" He shouldered her and plopped onto the couch. Crossing his arms, he nodded at the spot at the opposite end. "You wanted to talk. Bloody talk!"

She nervously sat on the lumpiest end of the sofa and put her bag in her lap, trying to hide the grim feeling that had settled in her stomach. "I didn't want to hurt you. I hope you know that."

"Didn't mean to hurt me?" He drew his brows together in angry confusion. "You fucking left! So you could go shag bloody Malfoy!"

"I didn't shag him," she defended herself, quietly, because there was not much defending that she could do. After all, there was a picture of her snogging the man in question on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

"What happened, then? Did he slip some Amortentia in your steak and kidney pie?" The facetious tone in his voice was also, somehow, hopeful. "Curse you? I _need to know_ , Hermione. I need to know so I can—so I can fix it."

"Ron..." Hermione trailed off, scooting a little closer to him. "I-I wish I could tell you it was a potion or a curse or something else equally awful, but—but it wasn't. It was me. I made the choice to kiss Draco."

"So this was all you, then," Ron growled, leaning forward. He cuffed his hands together. "You actually wanted to snog that fucking—that fucking _Death Eater._ "

Hermione was silent for a moment. It was the conversation she dreaded most, because some part of her would always love Ron as the friend he was meant to be. The truth was, she never loved him as her husband, and it was not fair to either of them to pretend that she did. Ronald Weasley had destroyed her more than once, and she knew she had done the same to him. Finally, it was time to put an end to it. With one last heartbreak, they could put the past behind them.

"Are you going to just bloody sit there?" he boomed, getting to his feet. "Say something! Say _anything!_ You got yourself into this mess, now you need to figure out how to fix it." He did not give her the opportunity to speak. "What's your plan? Move back in and act like everything's normal? My parents read the _Prophet_ , Hermione! How are we going to explain all of this to _them?_ "

Staring at the sticky coffee table, she whispered, "We don't."

Ron's shadow loomed over her. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean," she started, pulling her bag over back her shoulder and standing up, "that we don't need to explain anything. Ron, I—I don't think there's anything to explain."

"Are you serious? You expect my parents to just be okay with this? What about our kids? Didn't think of them when all this came out, did you?"

" _Actually_ , they're the first ones I thought of!" Hermione closed her eyes and splayed her hand over her face. "It's not going to be an easy conversation, but as far as your parents go, it's really not their business. I waited until we were separated. As far as I'm concerned, I did nothing wrong."

" _Separated?_ " Ron breathed. "Staying with Harry and Ginny for a few days hardly means we're _separated._ "

"Just because you didn't want to be separated doesn't mean we weren't!" Angry tears were streaming down her face. "I tried, you know! I tried to make you and I work but you—you left me behind, Ron! You always chose booze, but you never picked me!"

The deep shadows beneath Ron's eyes had grown darker somehow. "Don't you dare blame this on _me_ , Hermione."

"Well, maybe if you'd been emotionally available, I wouldn't have confided in him!"

"Well, maybe if you hadn't been a whore, I wouldn't drink!"

Hermione's jaw dropped. For all of the terrible words that had fallen from her husband's lips, those were the worst. Livid, she reached into her bag and began to rummage around.

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you and you're fishin' around in that damn bag," he growled, folding his arms. "Bet you don't treat Malfoy like this."

Finally, she found the paperwork. She held it out and gave the many pages a good shake for dramatic effect. "Go on, then."

Ron's forehead crinkled as he took the parchments from her grasp. His gaze raked over the text for a moment, and then his face became the most violent shade of purple that Hermione had ever seen. He waved the pages and took a foreboding step towards her. "Are you _kidding_ me? You actually want me to _sign_ these?"

"I assumed you didn't want to be married to a whore," she said, pointedly.

"Bloody _hell_ , Hermione! First, you cheat on me, then you come in here with _this?_ " He waved the paperwork again, this time all too close to her face. "Why? So you can marry that awful git? No way. I won't allow it." Then, without warning, he tried to tear the parchments in half. Of course, Hermione expected this, so they stayed exactly as they were, only leaving him more infuriated. "Fine, then!" He tossed them onto the coffee table. "You can enchant them all you want but you can't make me sign them."

Rubbing her temples, she grumbled, "Ron, please. I just want to be done and leave, okay?"

He shook his head and took another step closer to her. She could feel his hot breath on her face, and to her horror, he growled one dreadful word. "No."

"What do you mean no?" she said, awkwardly, taking a step back.

"I mean you aren't leaving that easily." He stalked towards her again, his face hovering just above hers. "This isn't the Hermione I know. Malfoy's done something to you, and I'm not letting you leave until it's fixed."

"Ron, really, he hasn't done anything—"

"Don't lie to me, Hermione!" He gritted his teeth and drew his wand from his pocket. "I know you might not know better, but I see through it. I see through _all_ of this. It's why you've been so weird the past couple of months. It's why you did what you did." He wagged his wand at her. "He's got you under the Imperius Curse, he does."

Hermione held her hands up in surrender. "Ron, really, I'm fine—"

" _Petrificus totalus!_ "

Before Hermione could reach for her wand, she felt her arms and legs stiffen. Her brain was telling her mouth to say something, yet she couldn't, and within mere seconds, she had fallen onto the singed and sticky carpet. A discarded bottle was prodding into her shoulder, and even though she could feel the discomfort of it, she could not stop it.

"I'm sorry, love," Ron blubbered, stepping over her. His eyes were brimming with tears. "But it's for your own good. I'll—I'll figure out how to snap you out of it—even if it means making him come down here and terminating it himself."

There were a number of curses that Hermione wanted to spit at Ron Weasley in that moment. Unfortunately, she could do nothing.

* * *

Eldin Primpernelle had a blemish. Most men and women experience blemishes at some point in life, but Eldin was different. Years of creams and serums and other various types of goop had left his face soft, luminous, and clear of any imperfections. He did not know what was different that afternoon, but whatever it was, it was his new mortal enemy.

"It's just so bloody _red!_ " he griped, rubbing the spot with a rather gelatinous potion. "Melman, are you even _listening_ to me?"

"Yeah, yeah. You got a spot. I know you want to put your makeup on, but we got work to do, princess. We just got an alert."

Primpernelle frowned. "It is not _makeup_. It's an exfoliating potion!"

"Whatever," Melman mumbled, his eyes fixed on the memo in his hands. He let out a heavy sigh. "Looks like we got a Full Body-Bind cast at Ron Weasley's house."

Still fingering the awful red blotch, Primpernelle rolled his eyes. "Well, _that's_ not illegal."

"We still gotta check it out," Melman said. He dropped the memo on his desk and pulled up his sleeves. "Weasley isn't supposed to be doing anything like that and after the news this morning, we can't know what sort of state he's in."

Primpernelle corked the exfoliating potion and leaned back, weaving his fingers behind his head. "You think it's Malfoy."

"Could be." He met his fellow Auror's eyes. "Or it could be the Minister for Magic."

"You can't think he'd be _that_ stupid."

Melman shrugged. "A wizard scorned, my friend, a wizard scorned."

"I suppose we ought to go ask him a few questions, then." Primpernelle sighed, getting to his feet. He thumbed the spot on his cheek one last time. "Today really couldn't get much worse, you know."

* * *

Despite the many times that his only son had disappointed him, Lucius Malfoy never thought that he was capable of something so sickening. He sat at the dining room table, reading the article for the third time that day. No matter how many times he read it, it still infuriated him.

_A politician. A criminal. An affair. It sounds like a Beatrice Stonybrook novel. It is, however, the true tale of our own Minister for Magic and the lover she chose over her own husband. We all may love a forbidden romance, but what happens when it affects the rest of the Wizarding world? What happens when two influential people choose themselves over everyone around them? These are the questions we must ask as we dive into the story of the Minister for Magic and the Death Eater._

_Hermione Granger: Minister for Magic, war hero, author. After marrying her school sweetheart and fellow war hero, Ronald Weasley, the two Gryffindors had two beautiful children and went on to move into a lovely home in Godric's Hollow. After her husband's short career as an Auror, he put his time into the family business, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Sadly, Gargantuan Gum and Fizzing Fireworks were not the only things that Weasley was developing. He also had gained quite a drinking problem. Meanwhile, his wife became the Minister for Magic, and not long after that, her book sold better than any other at Flourish and Blotts. A couple that the public thought to be perfect was actually crumbling from the inside._

_Draco Malfoy: wealthy heir, war criminal, Death Eater. After spending a lifetime around the Dark Arts, perhaps he was doomed from the beginning. His father, Lucius Malfoy, was a renowned Death Eater under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, going so far as to spend time in Azkaban for his crimes. His mother, Narcissa Malfoy, was born to the House of Black. The Blacks' dabblings in the Dark Arts is no secret, as Narcissa is the sister of the late Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange, and cousin to the murderer, Sirius Black. Young Draco had a troubled childhood, romanticizing the bloodstained history of his own family and those that surrounded them. At the mere age of sixteen, he joined forces with You-Know-Who along with his father, going on to try to murder Albus Dumbledore, himself. In an effort to do so, he cast the Imperius Curse upon Rosalind Rosmerta and gave her a cursed necklace, which she passed to Katie Bell, who is now a Ministry employee. No matter how young he was, Draco Malfoy was off to a dark and dangerous start._

_So how could two people so different end up together? Well, war does funny things to people. While Hermione Granger returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, her two best friends, Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, had gone on to accept positions as Aurors. Without her usual friends, she turned to an unexpected party, and that party was Draco Malfoy._

_Photographs of Granger and Malfoy can be found in copies of the_ Daily Prophet _fr_ _om 1998 and 1999. Reporters at the time speculated that their budding relationship was much more than friendship. The two were found giggling in pubs and running around Hogsmeade together on more than one occasion, which suggests that this affair is far from new. Have Malfoy and Granger been hiding their relationship for over twenty years? Well, maybe._

 _Draco Malfoy married Astoria Greengrass, who, unfortunately, passed away just a few years ago, while Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley's marriage has been public for almost two decades. The late Malfoy woman's illness was in the spotlight of the press, not unlike Weasley's dependence on alcohol. Were Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger seeing each other while their spouses struggled with illness and addiction? We may never know for sure._ _What we do know is that Granger recently acknowledged her relationship with Malfoy late last year at a botched press release when she admitted that she had met him for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. Sources also claim that the Minister for Magic has been spending less and less time at the office, and rumors suggest she has not been staying at her Godric's Hollow home with her husband since last week. Since she was pictured at Draco Malfoy's cottage, we can only assume she has gotten so bold as to move in with him. After all, the two of them did look quite comfortable there._

 _This all begs several questions. How does a Muggle-born like Hermione Granger end up with someone known to call for the death of witches and wizards exactly like her? Perhaps, she saw another side of him during their last year in school. Perhaps, she believes she can fix him, somehow. It could be his looks too. Malfoy was dubbed_ Witch Weekly _'s "Most Handsome Widower" not long after the death of his wife. There are a number of reasons she might find interest in him, but ultimately, it remains a mystery. The more obvious answer lies within the next question: how does a blood purist like Draco Malfoy find himself with a Muggle-born? True love? Reform? Our starry-eyed Minister for Magic may hope as much, but that is not the case. Malfoy is interested in her for one reason and one reason alone: power._

_The Malfoy family fell from grace after the war. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were desperate to regain their social status, and in hopes to better their image, they encouraged their seventeen-year-old boy to befriend war hero, Hermione Granger. He did as he was told, and as the years went on, the Slytherin and the Gryffindor continued their unexpected relationship. Granger, of course, should have seen right through his intentions, but love makes us ignore even the most obvious of things._

_The history between these star-crossed lovers may be blurred, but that does not excuse such reckless behavior. So what should we do when our Minister for Magic is having a relationship with a known criminal? Do we call for her resignation or do we look the other way? Only you, the public, can decide._

"Don't tell me you're reading that _again_ ," Narcissa Malfoy drawled, sitting across from her husband. "Obsession is a slippery slope to madness, dear Lucius."

"It's an embarrassment!" Lucius hissed. "Of all the idiotic things he's done, this is undoubtedly the worst."

"Worse than trying to kill a man?" Narcissa asked, coolly, folding her hands. "Worse than being put on trial for cursing an innocent woman?"

Lucius glared at her and set the newspaper on the table. "So you approve of this, then? You find it appropriate that our son is sleeping with a married Mudblood?"

"Of course it's not _appropriate_. I am simply saying that there are worse things." She fixed her posture. "The news is not ideal. That, I agree with, but he is my son, and I will stand beside him."

"And what of Scorpius? He already faces ridicule at school under that awful McGonagall woman and this is sure to only make it worse. Shouldn't you ask Draco to put an end to this, for the sake of your grandson?"

Narcissa set her jaw. "Do _not_ use my grandson against me, Lucius."

Before he could respond, a small squeak interrupted their argument. "Not to intrude, Master and Lady Malfoy, but there is a visitor that would like to speak with the two of you."

Maridel the house-elf had appeared in the corner of the room, bowing deeply. Her emerald bows dipped with her and a greying wizard stepped just behind her. His face was just as tight as the dress robes that he wore.

"Parkinson," Lucius said, beckoning a seat at the dining room table. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The man did not sit. "Where is Draco, Lucius?" The grave expression on his face told Lucius that he was not looking to pay his son a friendly visit.

"Why do you ask?" Narcissa cut in.

Parkinson's eyes darted towards her. "Unless you wish him dead, you'll tell me, Narcissa."

"Dead?" she breathed, clutching her chest. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I _mean_ , there are some nasty characters out there, and unless he has something for me to give to them, they'll be on his doorstep soon."

"What do they want?" Lucius asked, hoping that it was not some sort of blackmail due to the most recent news.

Parkinson leveled his gaze with the ostentatious couple. "A vase. A very... _particular_ vase."


	38. Lovingly

After many years of working with Geraldine Bulstrode, the pot-bellied Hufflepuff had learned not to expect praise. Marching in with Theodore Nott earned him nothing more than a series of grunts, and before he knew it, he was on the other side of a locked door.

"Not for your ears, eh, Preachwell?" Nott asked, grinning. "Must be tough being Bulstrode's house-elf."

"I'd watch it if I were you."

"Good thing you aren't me, then." Nott crossed his ankles and leaned back on the uncomfortable wooden bench. He, unlike Jeremy, had not learned that standing was always the coziest option in the Bulstrode summerhouse. "This probably cost her a good thousand Galleons and it's like sitting on a rock!"

"Did you think this was going to be pleasant?" Jeremy asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He had been waiting for the moment that Nott admitted how unhappy he was. That success, praise or no praise, he could bask in.

Nott stretched his back and eyed the door beside them. "Wonder if they're discussing what they're going to do with me."

"Dunno. Maybe." That was the truth. Jeremy never knew what was said behind that door, and though he was sometimes curious, he knew it was better to be ignorant. Perhaps, that was the only gift that Geraldine Bulstrode would ever give him: pure, sweet ignorance.

"Gotta be honest with you, Preachwell. Seems like you don't know _much_."

"Yeah, well, I'm in a better position than you, mate."

The hostage set his jaw and folded his arms. It was not often that Jeremy was in charge of anything, so some part of him enjoyed putting Theodore Nott in his place. He quietly wondered if his boss felt like that all the time.

"Hey, one more question. D'you know the plan for when those Aurors show? Apparate somewhere? Do you even have a license? Because if I get splinched—"

"There were no Aurors!" Jeremy hissed, though he involuntarily peered out the nearest window to check. "Now stop it with that, would you? You're going to get us both in a heap of trouble."

Nott shrugged. "Just thought you might want to prepare yourself. I imagine your boss and all her lot would appreciate a bit of a heads up. If you think they'd prefer to get blindsided, well, that's up to you..."

"I _said_ , stop it!"

To Jeremy's horror, his demand was followed by the sound of a turning doorknob. The hinges creaked as the door slowly opened, and within a few seconds, he was met with the round face and beady black eyes of the woman he feared most.

"M-M-Madam Bulstrode!" he stammered. "What do you need? C-can I help? Do you—do you need me i-in there?"

"Quit your blubbering, Preachwell," Bulstrode spat, revealing her gummy, rotting teeth. "What I need from you is to stop with all the noise! The Petrovs suggested that I curse whoever is making such an infernal racket, but I thought I'd give you a bit of fair warning before I turn them loose."

"Th-the Petrovs?" Jeremy said in disbelief. Vitaly had cursed him more times than he could count, but there was another Petrov that never wished violence upon him. Had her memory faded so much that she viewed him as her father did? Was he nothing more than a pawn meant to be sacrificed? "Irina... Is she—is she in there?"

"Behave yourself, Preachwell." She wagged a finger. "You leave that girl alone."

Jeremy gulped and nodded. It was not the first time that he had received such a warning, and it was likely not going to be the last.

"Now keep it down." She turned to Theodore Nott. "The both of you."

After Bulstrode announced her reentrance and the door clicked shut, Jeremy grabbed Nott by the arm. Despite Nott's loud protests, he tugged his prisoner down the long, winding hallway, ignoring the nasty remarks from portraits of dozens of deceased Bulstrodes.

"The halfwit!"

"Does he have a _ward?_ Geraldine would _trust_ him with such a task?"

"Look at those robes! He shouldn't even be allowed in the Halls of Bulstrode!"

Jeremy disregarded Nott's snickers and pulled him into a grand, golden lavatory. Only when the door closed did he let out a sigh of relief.

"Merlin, I hope she didn't hear all that. She'll have us killed if she has to come out of that room again."

Nott sat on the edge of the large tub and nodded. "Wouldn't be my first experience with murderers."

"Right. Your father was—well, I know who he was." Jeremy suddenly felt a pang of guilt. His own father was a simple candymaker, yet he turned out worse than the son of an infamous Death Eater. "Madam Bulstrode speaks highly of him."

"She'd be the only one," Nott snorted.

The Hufflepuff did not know what to say. Jimson Preachwell brought nothing but joy to all those that he met, twirling multicolored taffy with an infectious grin on his face. His childhood must have been very different from Theodore Nott's.

Nott broke the silence. "So who's Irina?"

"Nobody," Jeremy hissed, suddenly losing all sympathy he felt for the unfortunate wizard.

"Nobody? Didn't sound like a nobody to me," Nott said, smugly.

"Yes, well, she is—a nobody, I mean." Jeremy cracked his knuckles and sat down on the lid of the toilet. Only recently had it been upgraded from a gold-plated chamber pot, and at that moment, he was quite grateful for it. "Nobody said you were so _talkative_."

"I'm usually not."

"Well then, why now?" The feeling of power that Jeremy had only moments before was diminishing. "Aren't you at least a little bit scared?"

"Not really. You aren't exactly intimidating." Nott chuckled. "And you shouldn't be so embarrassed about that Irina witch. I'd give my Pansy the universe if I could."

Jeremy ran his tongue over his teeth. "Irina Petrov is not to me what Pansy Parkinson is to you."

"Well, she's a Nott now, but fair enough." The wizard scratched the back of his head. "Didn't—er—didn't work out between you two, I assume?"

Jeremy glared at him. "It's none of your business."

"Fine. Have it your way, then."

Love was a contentious subject for Jeremy, and he was not about to have an emotional breakdown in front of a man that was supposed to be his prisoner. After all, he would not even be in the Bulstrode summerhouse if it was not for Irina Petrov and her dastardly father. In order to prove that he deserved her hand in marriage, he had joined Bulstrode's ranks as a lowly henchman. Sadly, Vitaly Petrov was not the honest man that Jeremy hoped he was.

"Do you think my wife is going to be a widow by the end of this?" Nott asked, his voice much less confident than it had been since they met.

Jeremy did not have the heart to tell him the truth. He knew all too well what it was like to be in love. "My boss is a reasonable woman. I'm sure if you just give her what she wants, she'll just obliviate you and let you go."

Nott shifted in place, clearly unconvinced. Jeremy opened his mouth to further reassure him, but was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a loud voice. To his horror, it belonged not to his boss or her associates.

* * *

With his wife lying motionless on the bed they once shared, Ronald Weasley paced the room. From what he read of the Imperius Curse, there would be no way to reverse the spell—at least not without the help of the wizard who cast it. Draco Malfoy, like always, had caused quite a conundrum.

"I'll murder that git for doing this to you, dear. I swear I will," the redhead lamented. He took a swig of rum. "By the time I'm done with him, he'll be _begging_ for life in Azkaban."

Hermione, of course, responded with nothing. Instead, she lay there, frozen in time like an ice-dipped statue. Ron hated seeing her in such a state, but he was certain that it was for her own good. After all, there was no telling what Malfoy had in store for her.

"I'll never let you go again," he promised, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I know you aren't yourself right now, but we'll get you sorted and make sure Malfoy pays for what he did. I'm sorry I got so mad. I just—I just thought that maybe you actually had a—a _thing_ for him. I'm sorry, love. I'm so, so bloody sorry."

Apologies were often just words. Every time Hermione complained of his dreadful messes or his drinking, he chose one of two roads: an argument or a meaningless admission of guilt. However, this time was different; it was one of only a handful of times that he actually meant "I'm sorry" when he said it. If he had not been so caught up in his own problems, he would have seen the signs. He could have helped her sooner. As usual, his own selfishness had failed both of them.

Ron took an impressively long drink and began pacing again. "Merlin, why'd you have to be so bloody _stupid_ and get anywhere near that—that _wanker?_ You had to know he was up to something." Tears prickled his eyes. "He's _always_ up to something."

He took another swig, making a face as it was far from his poison of preference.

Meanwhile, Hermione lay there, still unmoving. Nothing hurt him more than knowing he cursed his own wife, but if he didn't, there would be no convincing Malfoy to release her from a far worse fate.

"Sick twit."

Malfoy's evil past was no secret, but somehow, Ron could not believe that he had the audacity to curse a woman that he, even after many years of torment, claimed as a friend. How _dare_ he? Even Malfoy should have had the sense not to harm her. Hermione was simply too _good._

"I must look absolutely mental," he breathed, sitting down on the bed beside her. "You'll thank me in the end, though. Once this is all over, you'll thank me. I just know it."

As he trailed his fingers through her hair, he felt a strange sense of contentment. For the first time in months, he knew that Hermione Granger was going to be his again. It would just take a little bit of work.

* * *

There was no way of knowing what was going on inside of the large Godric's Hollow home, but Nelson Melman and Eldin Primpernelle were about to find out. The morning news was troublesome, to say the least, and the more Melman thought about it, the more worried he became. Ronald Weasley was not above attacking his own brother, so it was hard to say what he might do to his cheating wife or her lover.

"Okay, let's go over the plan again," Melman hissed, his hand on his wand. "I'm going to go to the door first. You'll slip in behind me and then I'll call for Weasley to come quietly. He's going to try and Disapparate, and when he finds out he can't, he might get a little frazzled. Expect him to come out with his wand drawn."

Primpernelle bobbed his head. "Slip in behind and then prepare for curses. Got it."

"Good." Melman gestured the door. "Ready?"

"Ready."

The damp grass squished beneath Melman's boots as he snuck towards the porch. He sensed his fellow Auror's presence behind him, and with a single nod, he knocked.

"WEASLEY!"

He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sign of human life. After several minutes of silence, he frowned and knocked again.

"WEASLEY! COME OUT AND SURRENDER YOUR WAND!"

Again, nobody responded. A quick Unlocking Charm did the trick, and with Primpernelle on his tail, Melman stepped into the house. Judging by the number of broken bottles on the floor, Weasley was either drinking himself to death or there was a struggle. Melman would place his bets on both.

Then, he heard a voice from down the hallway. As he met eyes with Primpernelle, he confirmed that the younger Auror heard it too.

"You don't deserve this. You don't deserve any of this," the voice said. "I love you, Hermione. I love you _so_ much."

All of the doors in the hallway were open—all but one. Melman pressed a finger to his lips and listened for another moment.

"I should've known you would never—not with _Malfoy_. I should've known!"

Melman's heart sank. He at least had one person held hostage, and it was the Minister for Magic. Sending an old friend to Azkaban would not be easy, but Ron Weasley was no longer the person he knew—not if he was willing to hurt his wife.

He cleared his throat. "Weasley, it's Melman. We're just outside the room. We need you to come out and drop your wand."

Weasley's breathing shallowed. Somehow, he had not heard the other warnings.

"This isn't a joke, Weasley! Get your ass out here and give up your wand!" Primpernelle exclaimed, seemingly annoyed with the wait.

"Y-you're trespassing!" Weasley shouted through the door. "You have no right to be in my house!"

They did not have time to argue with him when the Minister was in danger. Eldin cast an Unlocking Charm and pushed open the door. "Actually, we do."

"Good God, Weasley," Melman breathed, shouldering Primpernelle as he pushed his way inside. "The Minister for Magic? Have you bloody lost it?"

"No, you don't understand," Weasley defended himself, putting his hands up. "She's—something's wrong with her. Draco Malfoy, erm—he's a Death Eater and he—he—"

"He what? He shagged her? Is that what this is all about?"

"No!" Weasley scowled. "He's got her under the Imperius Curse or somethin'! She's not right! She came in here asking for—asking—"

"Save it for the interrogation, Weasley," Melman said, astonished by the scene before him. Never in all of his years did he think Ronald Weasley was capable of such a crime. "We'll still be needing that wand. With your recent history, we just have to take it. I'm sorry."

Ron stiffened his jaw before proffering his wand. Primpernelle snagged it.

"Eldin is going to take you back to headquarters while I sort this whole mess out." Melman grimaced. "Wish I could help you out here, mate, but you've put me in quite a position."

"What my associate _means_ to say," Primpernelle started, shooting a glare at his coworker, "is that you're facing some serious charges here. No weaseling out of this one."

"What do you mean _serious charges? I_ didn't use the Unforgivable on her! That was Malfoy!"

Primpernelle tucked Ron's wand into his waistband. "You held someone against their will—an important government official, at that. Until you have _proof_ that Draco Malfoy did anything, this isn't going to look very good for you, Weasley. Sorry to say." He held out a hand. "Come on, then."

"Hang on," Weasley said, backing up. "You won't even _question_ Malfoy? She's got the bloody Imperius Curse on her, she does! You have to find him! Put him under Veritaserum! I did this to _help_ her! You think I'd hurt my own fucking wife? What kind of animal do you think I am? Melman, you _know_ me! You _know_ I wouldn't hurt her!"

"It'll look better if you go quietly," Melman warned. "Don't do anything stupid and maybe, _maybe_ the law will have mercy on you. That's assuming you aren't lying about this whole Malfoy thing."

Nelson Melman wanted nothing more than to believe that it was all an awful misunderstanding and the real criminal was Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately, the rum on Weasley's breath was not very encouraging.

"But—Malfoy—"

"But Malfoy nothing," Primpernelle spat. "Look, Weasley, I'm not in the mood for games. I don't know if you noticed or not, but I have a pretty dreadful spot on my face I'd like to go take care of. The longer I have to watch you grovel to my partner, the angrier I get, and the angrier I get, the worse this interrogation is going to go for you. Got it?"

"A spot?" Ron growled. "You want to get lazy with my freedom because you have a ruddy _spot?_ "

"Weasley, just go." Melman instructed. "Go and nobody has to get hurt."

"No! I'm not going anywhere until you talk to Draco bleedin' Malfoy!"

With that, he darted towards Hermione's frozen form and reached for her wand.

" _Stupefy!_ " Primpernelle shook his head as Ron fell to the floor, unconscious. "Can't believe this guy used to be an Auror."

With a deep sigh, Melman made his way to Hermione Granger. "Get him out of here. I doubt she's going to react very well to her captor being in the room when she gets her movement back."

"Could be traumatizing, yeah," Primpernelle agreed, stooping down to the floor. He grabbed the stupefied wizard's arm and looked up. "You think he was going to..."

"No," Melman answered, shaking his head. His partner did not have to finish the thought. There were two main reasons that a drunken man might curse a woman with the Full Body-Bind, and both of them were disturbing, to say the least. "Go easy on him, would you? That whole Malfoy story—"

"Don't tell me you _believe_ him!"

Melman shook his head. "No. But I think _he_ believes it."

* * *

"Bulstrode! We've got you surrounded! Come out with your cronies and surrender your wands!"

After spending nearly two hours trying to bring down the protective enchantments, Harry Potter and his team of Aurors had finally gotten past them. Bulstrode's estate was just as grand as he could have assumed it would be, and from the looks of the outside, he was not sure if he would be able to find her _or_ her associates. There were too many places to hide.

"They ain't gonna come out, boss." Vox nudged him. "Bunch o' bloody fairies."

"Better to give them the chance," Harry said. "I suspect it's a maze in there."

Usually, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would not waste any time in apprehending a suspect, but Bulstrode was a unique case. As soon as Phoebe Humphries's swan Patronus confirmed that the mansion was not connected to the Floo Network, he had made his decision. His team was far too tired to run in without the home-field advantage.

Several quiet moments passed. Nobody went in and nobody came out, which was no surprise, of course. If Geraldine Bulstrode was willing to turn herself in, she would have done it long ago.

"Just like I said, no one's comin' outta there." Vox's curiously long wand was trained on the mansion. "We're gonna have to storm the place, just like we figured."

Harry combed his fingers through his greying locks. Bulstrode and her crew certainly did not scare him, but he did not know that his team would drain themselves of most of their magic before they even got to the estate. The protective enchantments may not have robbed Vox of his energy, but Beatty, Duncan, and Durden were on the other side of the building, pallid and short of breath. If Bulstrode's followers were as able as he feared they were, there was a strong probability that they would leave the estate with Auror casualties.

"No," he decided. "We'll draw them towards us. They can't Disapparate and they aren't connected to the Floo Network. There's nowhere for them to go but out."

"Or they can stay inside and hide like the cowards we know them to be!"

"I'm willing to take that chance."

Harry's eyes were fixed on the front garden. Even in the dead of winter, the plants grew green and tall, with hedges licking the windows and vines crawling all the way up to the roof. It was a strange sight to behold, but it gave him an idea.

"Potter, this wasn't part of the plan—"

"Neither was spending as long as we did on their shield, but we had to adapt."

"But we're better off in there where we can take 'em one by one! At least it'd be a fair fight, then!"

"No. If one of the others goes down, we need to be able to help. We can't do that by splitting up," Harry barked. "You _saw_ them. You _know_ what will happen if one of them faces Bulstrode or one of her more...practiced accomplices. We draw them out. That's final."

Vox did not look convinced. "Fine. What's your plan, then?"

Harry drew in a deep breath and pointed his wand at the garden. It was not the most orthodox plan, but he was certain that it would work.

 _"Incendio_. _"_


	39. Fiery

Smoke danced through the garish mansion, blackening the Victorian curtains and extravagant antique furniture. As her boss screeched in horror, Irina Petrov tucked her cinnamon locks behind her ear and flicked her wand towards one of the stained glass windows. The glass disappeared, and just as quietly as she had whispered the spell, she slipped out into the back garden.

Flaming hydrangeas and crackling embers concealed her as she cast a soft Disillusionment Charm, a spell that she had perfected over the many years she spent training under her father. A man and two women spanned across the edge of the summerhouse, two on either side of the small pond and one behind the nearby rock-bed. All three of them looked mortified.

"Nobody yet!" the man reported.

"Clear on this end too!" one of the women shouted back.

The Aurors were clearly unprepared, and with the mix of smoke and stealth, they would be quite easy to pass without detection. Irina stifled a chortle. Only rookies wouldn't have noticed the disappearing glass.

"My _curtains!_ " Geraldine sobbed. "Oh, they'll pay for this."

A jet of water blasted Irina in the back of the head and it took all of her willpower not to swear. She was not sure why Geraldine was still trying to salvage the mansion, but it was hardly a shock.

"There are three back here," Irina heard her father's say. "Nobodies. Do not even know their names. Potter and Vox on the other side."

"You are better off taking our chances with whoever the other three are," Travers said. "Go through the back. Rowle and I will handle Potter."

Someone was coughing on the smoke—a male. "What about us?"

Irina did not recognize the voice, but when she braved a peek inside, her heart skipped a beat. Jeremy Preachwell was standing in the doorway, holding the prisoner by the collar. She only saw Jeremy in small doses, yet for some reason, she always felt drawn to him. It was almost like they had a history that she could not quite place.

She knew that there was no time to waste, but her feet were glued to the ground. As the stench of burning plants stung her nostrils, she anxiously awaited Bulstrode's answer. What _was_ the plan for Preachwell and the prisoner? Jeremy had never been the best with a wand. Surely, he would not make it very far without help.

" _You_ are staying with me," Bulstrode hissed. "Preachwell, you, on the other hand, will be going out front ahead of Travers and Rowle. Distract them. Make them think it's just you here. Since you so brilliantly led them here, you're going to surrender and tell them I went for a trip. Perhaps some time in Azkaban will teach you how to be a little bit more _inconspicuous_."

Irina covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. Just as everyone went their separate ways, the roof collapsed, and it was only a swinging gutter that urged her to start running. Her feet pounded the lush grass, and only once she reached the high hedges of the courtyard did she stop. Her father had ordered her to wait for him, and no matter how scared she was, she could not will herself to disobey orders.

"Hey! Hey you!" one of the intruders boomed. "Stop right there!"

It was Bulstrode, and she had no intentions of stopping. In the crook of her arm was a choking Theodore Nott, whose desperate pleas were being blatantly ignored as Bulstrode raised her wand to the back of his head. A coy grin was on her dark red lips. "If you try and take me in, Nott dies."

In between heavy breaths, Irina tried to grasp what was unfolding before her. The fire was expanding faster and faster, incinerating every inch of the garden and much of the mansion. If Bulstrode finally left her beloved summerhouse, that meant Jeremy Preachwell was already in Auror custody. A sour taste fizzled in the back of Irina's throat. Her father told her many stories of Azkaban, all of them terrible.

"We aren't here to negotiate!" one of the women shouted, her wand still pointed at Bulstrode. "Let him go and drop your wand!"

"No negotiations, eh? Well, that may not end so well for you," Bulstrode purred. "A high profile death is exactly what your department needs, surely. His face all over the _Prophet_ , a sobbing Pansy Nott spending the rest of her days at Ministry headquarters, lamenting and barking demands. Potter would be just _thrilled_."

Then, Irina saw her father slip out the glassless window, his wand drawn and a look of hatred on his face that she was all too familiar with. Her heart pounded as she watched him stamp towards the scene, two wands pointed at him, and one still pointed at Bulstrode and Nott. She wanted to intervene. She wanted to save her father and Jeremy, and possibly even the prisoner too. Alas, she could only watch from afar.

"You will not harm anyone today," her father said, calmly. "We will leave, you will take no more than one of us, and you will clean up your dead. Unless you want more blood on your hands, you will agree to these terms."

"No one is going to die!" a man argued. "Put down your wands and we won't have to—"

_"Avada kedavra!"_

Irina had seen her father spit the curse many times, but never so quickly. The man dove to the ground, and Bulstrode smirked, her wand still probing the back of Nott's head. She began backing up, her arm still wrapped quite tightly around the prisoner's neck.

"As I'm sure you can understand, we're in quite a rush to be going."

"Madam!" Irina's father warned.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

Before Bulstrode could even think about making an escape, she was disarmed. Her eyes widened and though she tried to hastily retrieve her wand, the woman had cast a Full Body-Bind Curse. Her eyes were still open, glinting in the winter sun as she collapsed to the ground, stiff as a board.

" _Cru_ —"

Her father could not get the rest of the curse out in time. The other woman had disarmed him, and within seconds, he too was in a Full Body-Bind. With one pointing her wand at Nott, the other shouted, "WE GOT HER! WE GOT BULSTRODE!"

Irina did not know what to do. They had not come up with a second plan. So instead of following orders, she followed her heart, and she sprinted. Her Disillusionment Charm was likely flickering, but she did not care. She kept running through the courtyard until she circled the edge of the burning building. Only when she reached the front garden did she almost scream.

Jeremy Preachwell was on the ground, bound by magic just like Bulstrode and her father. Rowle lay lifeless in the grass in a pool of his own blood, and two wands were shooting curses at Travers. Irina ducked to avoid one that had missed him.

_"Crucio!"_

The Aurors blocked the curse. Her eyes kept darting towards Jeremy, hoping that he did not get caught in the crossfire. He was far too close.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

Travers cackled and countered the spell easily. "That the best you got, Potter?"

Potter angrily blasted a curse that Irina did not recognize, but Travers dodged it and hissed the Killing Curse. Irina glanced at Jeremy. Harry Potter had, naturally, dodged the very curse that left the scar on his head.

_"Stupefy!"_ Vox boomed.

Travers almost seemed bored as he remedied the spell.

_"Crucio!"_

Irina winced. Potter was gritting his teeth in agony, and the distraction seemed to be enough to draw Vox's attention from the man that uttered the awful curse. Grinning, Travers took advantage of the opportunity.

_"Accio Nebula Two!"_

That seemed to get Vox's attention, as he turned around and growled, "Oh, no you don't!"

The large man lunged at Travers, but quickly regretted it. A second cry of _"Crucio!"_ had him writhing in pain.

Potter was hastily crawling towards the both of them. Once more, he groaned the curse that Irina did not recognize. Travers, however, already had his hands on the broom; he mounted it just in time to avoid Potter's wandwork, waggling his fingers as he rose into the sky.

The two Aurors blasted hex after hex, but Travers was far too quick on a broom. It was not long before he was out of the range of their wands.

"Damn it!" Potter swore.

"Bloody slick, that one," Vox admitted, getting to his feet. He offered his friend a hand and pulled him up. "Can't believe he managed to get out of Azkaban."

"Yeah," Potter muttered. "Me either."

"We'll get him." Vox clapped the other man on the back. "Can't hide out long without his mates."

Potter did not seem convinced, but it was clear that he was all business. He checked to assure Rowle was dead while the other Auror walked around the perimeter. Irina chanced a final look at Jeremy Preachwell as the Aurors finished their rounds. Tears were prickling her eyes, but she knew she had to go. Azkaban was no place for a girl like her.

So she left Jeremy behind. Somehow, it did not feel like the first time.

* * *

Fifty-one lost brains. It was not every day that something went awry in the Brain Room, and Regina Prattle was far from excited to deliver her report regarding the dreadful incident. Her dry, cracked lips mouthed the speech she was hardly prepared to give, and with only two minutes left on the clock, she knocked on the frosted door.

There was no answer. According to her watch, there was still a moment before their meeting, so she lipped the report again, thankful for the extra time. She practiced again, and again, and again. Still, the door did not open.

"M-Madam Thomas?" she squeaked, knocking for the second time.

Confused, she tried to open the door herself. Her lack of success didn't surprise her, but Lenore Thomas's lateness did. The Head of the Department of Mysteries was, after all, a very prompt woman.

_"Ahem."_

Regina whipped around. "Leandra! You startled me!"

"Yes, so it would seem," the wide-nosed woman drawled. Her black irises flickered towards the door. "Surely, you've heard the news."

"News?" Regina had not heard any news. She had spent ninety-six consecutive hours trying to coax hundreds of brains back into their tanks. Halfway through, she had run out of Invigoration Draught, leaving her exhausted, overwhelmed, and utterly ready to go home.

"Madam Thomas is not here." Leandra cuffed her hands behind her back. "She has been missing for some time now. There is talk of _foul play._ "

Regina gasped. "Good Merlin, that's just terrible! How long has she been gone?"

"Not long," Leandra purred. "A few days."

"Does the Auror Office have any leads?"

_"The Auror Office,"_ the pale witch repeated. "I'm not sure they've been notified. It is just _gossip_ , after all."

"Well, she's missing, isn't she? Reason enough to file a report, I'd say!" Regina could not believe her coworker's lack of action. Someone of Lenore Thomas's stature could be a target of any number of heinous crimes. "Who all knows about this?"

"Most of the department. I suspect a few others." Leandra frowned. "I wouldn't act too irrationally if I were _you_ , Prattle. She's gone missing at least three times that I can think of in the last ten years. Each time, she'd decided to take an impromptu holiday without telling anybody. Shocking she still has a job, considering her lack of responsibility."

"Ridiculous," Regina hissed, straightening her blouse. She turned on her heel and began marching out of the corridor.

" _Wherever_ are you going?" Leandra droned.

"To get our boss some bloody help!"

* * *

The blemish was not only hideous, but it ached. To make matters worse, Eldin Primpernelle found himself all alone with a disgruntled suspect. As the redhead tried to wrench his arm away, Eldin irately locked the door. Ronald Weasley was several inches taller than he was, and without help, restraining him had proven to be quite a feat.

_"Sit!"_ Primpernelle spat, holding his wand to Weasley's temple.

Fuming, the criminal did as he was told. He glared at his captor. "I'm not an animal."

"Is that so?" Eldin circled the table and licked his lips. He was hardly afraid of the wandless brute. If anything, he found the man to be nothing more than an annoyance. "Then, explain to me _why exactly_ you had your wife under the Full Body-Bind Curse."

Frazzled, Weasley began sputtering the same thing he had been saying the whole time. The story was, of course, unbelievable at best. "I already tried to _tell_ _you_. Malfoy has her under the Imperius—"

"Stop it with that Imperius Curse bullshit," Primpernelle snapped. "I'm not buying it and neither will anyone in court. If you're angry about her little tryst with Draco Malfoy, then you're going to have to admit it. Otherwise, you won't stand half a chance in front of the Wizengamot."

"Of course I was angry!" Weasley exclaimed, throwing his hands up. They immediately went back into his lap when Eldin trained his wand on him. "She's my wife! I thought she—I thought she wanted to be _with_ him."

Eldin pursed his lips. "Maybe she does. You two _were_ separated and she was seen in public with him. Would it make you angry if she wanted to be with Malfoy and not you?"

"She _doesn't!_ "

"Hypothetically," Eldin said, leaning across the table. "Let's just say _hypothetically_ that she would choose Malfoy over you. Would that make you angry?"

"Well—well, sure, but—"

"Angry enough to attack her? Hold her hostage?"

"Wait a minute, I never—"

"Weasley, I'm going to level with you," Primpernelle interrupted, sinking into the chair opposite the redhead. "This is an open and shut case and it doesn't look very good for you. Imperius Curse or not, you put a woman—your wife, to be exact—in a Full Body-Bind without being provoked. Now, it just so happens, you married the Minister for Magic. That puts you in a really bad position with the law. Treason isn't something to be messed about with."

Weasley wrung his hands. "Treason?"

"Afraid so." Eldin spun his wand between two fingers. "No matter how this conversation goes, you're not going to be going home today. Because of the nature of the crime—"

"I'll be going to Azkaban," the ex-Auror whispered. He looked down. "I-I was trying to help her."

Primpernelle sighed. "I'd like to believe you, Weasley, but it doesn't matter if I do or don't. It's not _me_ you have to convince. It's the Wizengamot."

* * *

The Auror Office was strangely empty. Nelson Melman had fetched the Minister for Magic a cup of tea, but she was still, understandably, distraught. Her eyes were red and swollen and the teacup shook in her bony hands, the contents only staying inside due to the cup's permanent enchantments. With each sob she sucked in, Nelson became increasingly aware of how alone they were. Consoling victims had never been his strong point.

"If you'd rather, we can wait for my supervisor. She's a woman, so she may understand better."

"Your supervisor is Phoebe Humphries," the Minister huffed, placing the cup of tea back down onto Duncan's desk, where she was seated. "I'd rather speak to you."

Nelson nodded, straddling his own chair. He had pulled it close to her so she knew that he was there to help. Some part of him regretted it. "Very well. We can start whenever you're ready." It was difficult to force out the words. The last thing he wanted to do was spend his afternoon speaking to the Minister for Magic about her feelings.

"I'm ready now," Granger said, stiffly. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, erm..." If it weren't his job, he would want to know as little as possible. "Let's start with how you ended up in the house in Godric's Hollow."

She nodded. "I went there."

"Why?" For the first time since they sat down together, Nelson was genuinely curious. He adjusted himself in the chair and tapped his quill against his tongue. "You've been staying with your in-laws since last weekend, yes?"

The Minister grimaced. "I was. My sister-in-law kicked me out this morning."

"You wanted to move back in with Weasley, then?" Nelson frowned, quite confused. Powerful witches did not often return to abusive spouses, though he had heard of Muggle women doing so.

"Oh, Merlin no! I went there to file for divorce. I talked to my PR advisor and we agreed that it was for the best," the witch explained. She took another sip of tea. The cup no longer shook in her grasp, a clear sign that she was growing more comfortable with him. "I just needed Ron to sign some parchments."

Melman nodded, scribbling down several notes. Writing on Duncan's desk hardly felt natural. "A divorce makes sense. You and Malfoy are pretty serious, then?"

Granger glared at him. "I don't see what this has to do with my husband holding me against my will."

"Well," the Auror breathed, "your husband seems to think that Draco Malfoy has you under the Imperius Curse."

"Oh, I know!" she scoffed. "It's rubbish. Everything that happened between Draco and I—well, not that it's your business, but I wanted to do it just as much as he did. We knew the risks. I didn't plan for Ron to find out the way he did, that much I'll admit, but he was going to find out the truth eventually. Draco and I, we—we have plans for the future."

"It would be fair to say you're serious, then."

Suddenly, she seemed quite interested in her fingernails. "I suppose."

"Alright, then." He took down several more notes. "So how did you end up in the Full Body-Bind? What happened after you got to the house?"

The Minister sighed. "Ron answered the door, we exchanged some words, then I tried to get him to sign the papers and he started rattling off nonsense about the Imperius Curse. That was when he decided to cast the curse instead of listen to me."

"And that was in the bedroom? Any kind of fight before that?" The look of confusion on her face prompted him to clarify. "Physical, I mean."

"Physical? No, we just argued." Granger shuddered. "In the living room. It wasn't until he cursed me that he dragged me to the bedroom like a ruddy _caveman_."

"I see," Melman muttered, scribbling down his final notes. Once he was finished, he piled his quill and ink atop the illegible parchment and pulled a vial from his pocket. "Can I get a memory from you? We'd just like to confirm all of this."

"Yes, fine," the witch mumbled, retrieving her wand from her waistband. With one eye closed in focus, she removed the glowing string of memory and dropped it into the vial. "Can I go now? I'd like to get some work done before the day is over."

"Yes, that's fine." Melman held out his palm and she dropped the vial into it. "You're free to go."

Just as the Minister stood up, the door opened. With an evil glint in her eye, Phoebe Humphries stormed in and growled, "Sit back down, Granger. We need to have a little _chat_."


	40. Query: Part I

Some witches and wizards were deemed far too dangerous to be interrogated at Ministry headquarters. Much to Harry Potter's dismay, such witches and wizards were to be taken immediately to Azkaban, where he would sit with them and try to coax a confession. It was not the interrogating that bothered him. It was Azkaban itself.

The fortress was located on the North Sea, kissed by lichens and the frigid tide. Once swarming with Dementors, Azkaban had a long, dark history of false imprisonment, Death Eater escapees, and unmatched joylessness. The history, however, was not what Harry loathed most about it. Despite his harrowing run-ins with Dementors, he much preferred them to the guards that roamed the prison now. At least Dementors couldn't take bribes.

"Afternoon, Potter," greeted a smarmy character by the name of Vikram Boase. His slimy grin and jangling pockets suggested that he had been taking advantage of the prison's many wealthy visitors. "See you brought some _fresh meat._ "

"I'll need three of the most secure cells you can muster, Vikram," Harry said, flatly, his wand aimed directly at the back of Bulstrode's head.

Bulstrode and the Slavic man fumed, silently. They had regained consciousness once they arrived at Azkaban, but still, they complied. Of course, they did not have much of a choice. With their limbs magically bound and strong levitation charms on each of them, they knew fighting would only earn them a harsher sentence. Jeremy Preachwell, however, did not have the same amount of sense. He tried quite desperately to protest, only to be deterred by Beatty's rather powerful Silencing Charm.

"Three cells but I see four prisoners," Vikram pointed out with a smirk. "Not _taking bribes_ now, are we, Potter?"

"This one here was a hostage," Vox cut in, squeezing Theodore Nott's shoulder. "We have no intentions of leaving him here unless he gives us reason to."

Vikram raked over the two of them. "An innocent Nott. Somehow, I find that hard to believe."

"It doesn't matter what you believe," Potter growled. "I need three cells or else we'll be having a conversation about the Sickles in your pockets. Got it?"

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Very well. Follow me."

The party of Aurors escorted their prisoners down the labyrinthine corridors of Azkaban, fixated upon the guard as he led them into the heart of the prison. After a slew of escapes, all of the most dangerous criminals were moved to the center of the building, far away from the crashing waves of the North Sea that, to many Death Eaters' delight, occasionally demolished a wall or two. Harry had a hand in this decision, though he regretted it each time he had to walk inside of the place. The smell of rot and decay made his stomach churn, and the screams only made it worse.

"Here we are." Vikram gestured an empty cell. "Prime real estate."

"Vox, take Bulstrode in there," Harry instructed. "And the other cells, Vikram?"

"Yes, yes. Come on, then."

The other two cells were not far from one another. They locked up the Russian and Jeremy Preachwell, leaving behind Durden to watch after Preachwell and Duncan to watch the other.

"Take Nott back to the Auror Office," Harry said in stride. From his robes, he pulled a clear bag containing a piece of pink yarn. It was one of many just like it. "Get him some water and something to eat. He's not to be questioned until I'm back. Do you understand?"

"You don't need me to help with negotiations?"

"For now, no. I need you to keep him under control."

Beatty nodded and took the bag. She opened the pinch-seal and turned to the rescued hostage. "You're with me, Nott. Fancy a trip?"

"Anything to be out of here."

* * *

Never in all of his years had Ronald Weasley ever been to Azkaban. Between the spin of the Portkey and the fear of what was to come, he was on the verge of emptying his stomach all over Eldin Primpernelle's rather snazzy shoes. He held it in, however, because he assumed that would only make the dreadful situation worse.

"Welcome to Azkaban. Here for a long stay?" a pale guard droned. He was sitting in a wooden chair with the _Daily Prophet_ open, his feet propped atop a small crate.

Primpernelle cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm here to deliver a prisoner—erm—an _alleged traitor._ "

The guard looked up. "Well, well, well. Ron Weasley. Suspec' you did somethin' stupid after readin' this morning's paper, eh?"

"The details of his alleged crime aren't important. He's facing treason charges. As you know, we have to bring in felons because they—"

"They could be a danger to 'emselves or others. Yeah, yeah. I know the law." The guard's knees cracked as he stretched and got to his feet. "I ain't really s'posed to help with the high-profile criminals. More Vikram's thing. He's helpin' someone righ' this second, but if you don't mind waitin', he oughta be back in a jiff."

"Oh, you have to be kidding me!"

"Hey, I don't make the rules, mate," the guard said in a bored tone. He collapsed into the chair once more and flipped the page of the newspaper. "By the way, you got a spot just there."

Primpernelle scowled.

Ron did not mind the guard's laziness. The longer that he avoided a cell, the better. Even during his time as an Auror, he had managed to avoid the infamous prison, and he in was no rush to experience it all at once.

A chuckling guard emerged from the shadows all too quickly. Keys jangled between his fingers as he watched the floor pass by beneath him, clearly unaware of his surroundings. Only when he reached the small entrance did he let out a peep.

"Mr. Primpernelle!" he exclaimed. "Has Morgus helped you yet?"

"Hardly," the Auror said, coolly. "I'm in need of a cell."

"Felon?" Vikram asked, risking a quick glimpse at Ron. "Sweet Merlin! I almost didn't recognize—is that Ron Weasley?"

"The one and only." Impatient, Primpernelle rolled his shoulders. "Look, can we speed this along? I really need to be getting back to the office."

"Yes, yes, of course." Vikram gestured for him to follow. "Come, come. Morgus, you too."

Morgus seemed less than thrilled to be standing again, but he obeyed, nonetheless. Vikram led the way, his pale colleague trailing just behind the three of them. Ron could feel the man's eyes on his back.

Howls filled the dingy halls and the sense of panic that Ron felt only grew. The walk seemed to last far too long, and it was after nearly twenty minutes that Ron finally realized where they were taking him. Windowless corridors meant that one thing was certain: he was not going to see the sky for a very long time.

"Here you are," Vikram said, unlocking an empty cell. "Home sweet home."

Mortified, Ron looked down at Primpernelle. The man fixed his flawless swoop of hair and elbowed him, urging him to enter the dark, dank chamber.

"You want me to stay in _there?_ " Ron asked, aghast. He shook his head. "No way! That's got to be the worst cell in this whole godforsaken place!"

Morgus snorted. "No, _Alecto Carrow_ has the worst cell 'ere. You wanna swap with 'er?"

Ron's face paled.

"That's what I thought," Vikram chortled. "In with you, then. Behave yourself and you _might_ just get a nice letter of recommendation for your hearing."

"Come on, then. We haven't got all day!" Primpernelle snarled, training his wand on Ron's temple once more.

"I-I—can't we wait 'til you—til there's—I mean, there isn't any evidence that Draco Malfoy didn't—"

Primpernelle pushed the wand-tip with more force than necessary. "Into the cell, Weasley. _Now._ "

Reality set in as he dragged his feet just past the bars. The dirty chamber pot. The bare bed. The shackles bolted to the wall. It was hard to believe that it was, at one time, a much more terrible place to be. If there was a hell, he was already in it.

Vikram laughed and closed the gate with an awful, rusty creak. The key made a clunking, metallic noise as Ron watched him lock it with one last, resounding note of confinement. He expected to be left to his own devices, but to his dismay, he was not. Primpernelle took the Portkey from his pocket and unwrapped it from its bag, leaving him alone with the two smirking guards.

* * *

Interrogating within the walls of Azkaban never made it easier, despite claims from veteran Aurors. The stench prickled the nose, the shrieks pierced the ears, and worst of all, there was a neverending drip that always seemed to find the top of one's head. Harry Potter quietly wondered if they would ever repair that infernal leaking roof.

"Look, the more you tell me, the better your hearing will go," he lied, palming his wet hair and ducking out of the steady drip. "You're in for a lot of charges, Bulstrode. Use of Unforgivables, collusion, refusal to comply, acts of terror, kidnapping..."

Bulstrode chuckled, baring her bleeding gums and black teeth. "Ah, but do you have proof that I've done all of that? Sounds like a lot of assumptions."

"We will," Harry warned. "We'll request the use of Veritaserum at your trial if we must."

"Don't you threaten me, _Potter_ ," she deadpanned. "I have friends at the Ministry, just like you do. You aren't going to let me out of this cell either way, so I see no merit in having this conversation."

"We're interviewing your friends next and I have a feeling they're gonna roll over on you," Vox interjected. "The Russian fellow may be trustworthy but what of the other one, Geraldine? Do you trust him? And I mean _really_ trust him."

Fear glossed over her face, but only briefly.

"I'll take my chances."

Harry sighed and turned to his partner. "We're wasting our time. I say we throw her to the wolves at the Wizengamot and start talking to someone that actually has something to say."

Bulstrode was too bright to take the bait. Instead, she hummed to herself and stretched out on her blanketless cot. The particularly round woman did not seem to fit on it all that well, and if she were not as wicked as Harry knew her to be, he might have felt bad for her.

"I'll check in with Duncan," Vox said. "Think it's time to put a bit of fear into the Russian. The other one'll sing like a bird."

Harry glanced at the Dark witch. "Last chance, Bulstrode. I'm about to go have a chat with Preachwell and I think you know as well as I do that he won't be able to keep as quiet as you'd like."

 _"He'll sing like a bird,"_ Vox reasserted.

The woman yawned in an effort to hide her nerves. If Harry had not been an Auror for over twenty years, he would not have noticed the twitch of her nose.

"Have it your way," Harry said with a shrug. "I'll be seeing you in court, then."

Vox called for the guard to unlock the cell, and as the telltale clop of Vikram's shoes approached, Bulstrode rolled over to look at the two of them. Harry waited, hoping she would admit to one of the many crimes that he knew she committed. Despite what he told her, a confession would not help her in front of the Wizengamot. If anything, it just further incriminated her. Lying was not one of his strong points, but it came with the job, and he would do anything to make sure Geraldine Bulstrode never taught Dark magic again.

"Something you want to say, Bulstrode?" Vox asked.

Vikram stood at the gate of the cell, looking rather annoyed with the two Aurors for calling him before they were finished.

The large woman looked them up and down, as though deciding whether or not she wanted to confess. After a long moment, she only said, "Your hair's wet, Potter."

Harry firmed his jaw and signaled for Vikram to let them out.

"We'll need in the other cells," Vox grunted. "The Russian and the one with the weird gut."

Vikram nodded and led them back to the other two cells. When the gate creaked open, the Russian made a swift movement. Duncan was, fortunately, much quicker, and she jabbed her wand into the suspect's throat, smirking to herself with pride. Preachwell, on the other hand, was cowering in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chin.

"Jeremy Preachwell," Harry acknowledged as the cell door closed behind him. A droplet of stagnant water fell onto his glasses and he wiped it away. "Unfortunate that we had to run into you under such circumstances. My wife loves your father's taffy."

Jeremy stared at him, unblinkingly.

"I trust that my colleague treated you well?"

Durden quickly said, "With nothing but respect, sir."

Harry nodded. "Good. You would agree, Jeremy?"

The wizard said nothing.

"Well, the truth is, you're in a bit of a lucky position," Harry went on, cuffing his hands behind his back. "Hard to believe, I know, but I reckon you're the only one we arrested today that has no desire to do Dark magic."

Vox could be heard berating the Russian in the background. By the sounds of it, the man said even less than Bulstrode.

"So why are you working for her?"

A questioning glimmer was in Jeremy's eyes, yet no words rolled from his tongue. He only stared.

"Did Rowle or Travers threaten you? Did _she_ threaten you?"

Still, the man he thought would talk the most was silent, and it made Harry wonder if he was under the Imperius Curse. The Preachwell family had no history of Dark magic, and with ties only to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, the wizard certainly was not some sort of megalomaniac.

"Did she threaten you?" he repeated.

Jeremy lifted his head a little and muttered, "Daily. Part of the job, though, isn't it?"

"But before that," Harry elaborated, suddenly understanding why Bulstrode relied on the wizard. Manipulating the talentless likely came naturally to her. "Did she threaten you into working for her?"

The Hufflepuff man gave him a curious look. "No."

Harry was growing exasperated. "So then _why?_ Why not just walk away when she asked?"

Jeremy offered nothing more than a shrug. His expression, however, was pained.

Durden placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We aren't getting anywhere, sir. Just let the Wizengamot deal with him."

Harry shook his head, slowly, his green eyes boring into the suspect. "No. I actually think I figured it out."

* * *

The room was spinning, or at least that was what it felt like. Minister for Magic or not, Hermione Granger knew that she was guilty, and guilty witches were held accountable for their actions. The empire she built was being used against her, and rightfully so.

Accusations poured from the mouth of Phoebe Humphries, some of them true, some of them farfetched. There was some sort of distortion to her voice, almost as though she were trying to speak underwater. Hermione could only clench her jaw and listen. Some words struck her. Others seemed to blur together in strings of garble.

"So which one is it?"

Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"

Humphries's stinking breath veiled the Minister's face. "Did—you—murder—her—or—curse—her?" The Auror spoke each word slowly, savoring them as they spilled from her lips.

Hermione smoothly replied, "Neither." Lying had become second nature, even in moments of panic.

"Neither," Humphries echoed, disbelievingly. "So you're telling me you were the last one to see her but you aren't responsible for her disappearance?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

If she held her composure, perhaps Humphries would accept her alibi—or lack thereof. To her misfortune, it was more likely that the woman would illegally question her under Veritaserum.

"Was it your little _boyfriend_ , then?"

"No," Hermione responded, confidently, folding her arms. "Are you done yet?"

Humphries sized her up for a long, uncomfortable moment. By the end of it, she grew a wicked smirk. "I think I'll bring in a Legilimens, just to confirm your little _story_. How does that sound?"

"Brilliant," Hermione said, stubbornly. She locked eyes with the Auror. "I can't wait."

Her web of lies couldn't save her now. Not this time.


	41. Query: Part II

The leaky cell was a downgrade from the summerhouse that Jeremy Preachwell had grown so accustomed to. He wiped the dewdrops from his forehead as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stared him down, desperate for more answers than Jeremy was willing to give. There was no way that Potter could know about Irina Petrov; at least, that's what he hoped.

"You're in love with her, aren't you?"

Jeremy's heart thudded in his chest. Even if Potter knew of his past with the Russian witch, he could never know that she was at the estate that day. She was the only one to slip away unnoticed, and if he had to spend ten lifetimes in Azkaban so she could walk free, he would.

With trepidation, he asked, "In love with who?"

"Bulstrode!" Potter approached him, squinting. His emerald eyes were those of a madman, bright and filled with certainty. "You're scared for her. Scared she'll be staying here for good."

The wizard wasn't sure he heard him right. The other Auror, Durden, appeared to be just as surprised as he was by Potter's allegation. Nevertheless, it was the out that he needed, so instead of arguing like he so deeply wanted to, he stammered, "Y-yes! Yes, exactly. I would m-miss her very much. Very much, indeed."

The words were hard to manage. He most certainly would _not_ miss Geraldine Bulstrode.

Potter nodded, seemingly accepting of his answer. Still, Jeremy held his breath. If he were to give himself away, his sweet Irina could pay the price.

"Azkaban isn't what it used to be," the Man-Who-Lived said, airily, turning away from Jeremy to pace the cell. His demeanor suggested he was itching to leave, like he had some other business to tend to. "The Minister passed legislation a few years ago allowing inmates to have visitors."

"Sir?" Jeremy was not quite sure what the Auror was implying.

"I'm willing to make a bargain with you," Potter conceded. "If you tell me what I need to know, I can make sure you see her twice a week. Supervised, of course, but it's better than nothing."

Visiting Bulstrode was out of the question. There was, however, a witch that he would very much like to see—a witch that was not in Azkaban at all.

"You know you won't ever see her in here, Jeremy," Potter continued, seeming to think it was a warning. In a way, it was, but not for the reason that he assumed. "You'll only hear her screams."

Jeremy was silent as he considered exactly what was being said to him. If he avoided Azkaban, it would be the end of the life he knew—the life he had been trying so hopelessly to escape. The offer could not be real. It had to be a trick.

"Well? What d'you say? Information for visitation rights—and your freedom."

Freedom. The word sounded foreign. As he mouthed it to himself, it left a strange taste on his tongue. Years had passed since he knew what it was like to be free, and the very concept was hard to grasp. Servitude had become his livelihood, and even as he watched the estate burn to the ground, Geraldine Bulstrode was on his mind. Potter seemed to think it was love. It was, however, quite the opposite. He feared her, and fear only bred loathing. Living a life without Vitaly Petrov or Geraldine Bulstrode had not seemed possible for so long, but now that it was within reach, he knew he had to seize the opportunity.

Perhaps, if he were lucky enough, he could find Irina and make her remember. Perhaps, they could finally have the wedding they planned.

"Fine, I'll tell you what I know."

"A brilliant decision!" Potter clapped him on the back. "One you won't regret, I'm sure. Azkaban's no place for someone like yourself."

Jeremy was not sure what he meant by that, but he decided it was best to play along. "Yes, well, if I had it my way, she wouldn't be here either."

How easy it was to lie to someone he did not fear.

"Right, right." The Auror frowned. If Jeremy didn't know better, he may have thought Potter pitied him. "Well, I suppose it's best you start from the beginning. Tell me everything—from the time you started working with her 'til now. The more I know, the more I can help the both of you."

Jeremy knew that there would be no help for Geraldine Bulstrode. He only hoped that his own deal was genuine.

"Well, Geraldine has a background in the Dark Arts, or her family does, anyway. I'm sure you know as much."

"The whole Wizarding world does, I'd think," Potter said, coldly.

"Sure, I suppose that's fair." It was more than fair. The Bulstrodes had a long history of dabbling with Dark magic. "Well, it was important to her to carry on—I dunno—some sort of legacy? No idea what drove her to do it, but I loved the girl, so I would've done anything for her." Technically, it was not a lie. Potter was simply too dumb to know he was speaking of two different women. "By the time I found out exactly what I had signed up for, Vitaly Petrov—the Russian—was already working closely with her. He threatened me. Pushed her to keep me in the lower ranks. I never actually saw them do—well, whatever it was that they were doing."

"Teaching Dark magic to young witches and wizards— _underage_ witches and wizards, mind you."

"Erm—right. Yeah, well, I never saw any of _that_ going on. Heard whispers of it, and often had to follow 'em on their missions—usually trips to Hogsmeade," Jeremy went on. This, also, was true. "They'd leave me at the Three Broomsticks while they went around the city. When we weren't there, we were at the summerhouse in Cornwall. It was just me, Geraldine, and Petrov at first, but eventually, Travers and Rowle came into the picture."

"So she helped them escape from Azkaban," Potter concluded.

"I guess so. I wasn't there."

Potter bobbed his head. He was soaking up every word. Strangely enough, he did not carry a quill and parchment for notes.

"Should I keep going?" Jeremy asked, unsure how many details the Auror really needed.

"Please."

"Alright. Er—well, there was a brief period when we stopped going to the village. A lot of closed-door meetings—"

"You attended these meetings?" Potter interjected.

Jeremy shook his head. "No."

The dark-haired wizard narrowed his eyes. "So despite your relationship with Bulstrode, she kept you in the dark?"

"Well, there wasn't much of a _relationship,_ per se."

"She never returned your feelings," Potter said. "She just used you."

Jeremy winced, thinking of Irina Petrov and her willingness to curse him. "Rub it in, why don't you?" He cleared his throat. "I guess you could put it that way, though. Eventually, they all started going to Hogsmeade again. Travers and Rowle too. They didn't leave me at the pub anymore, though. I was sent to the city instead—Ullapool, mostly, occasionally Inverness. I was to pick hairs off of toilet seats and from the floors at hair salons. It was my job to keep a steady supply of Polyjuice Potion and they were better off as Muggles. That was the routine for a long time, anyway. Stealing pubic hair and making Polyjuice. Barely remembered what Iri—Geraldine—looked like. She was always someone else. They all were."

Part of him preferred it when things were that way. At least, when Irina was a Muggle girl he'd never met, he did not have to look in her vacant, heartbreaking eyes.

"Did any others ever join you? Students that they had been teaching maybe?"

"Just one, and not for long," Jeremy admitted. This was some of the only valuable information he had. "Valeria Twinn. She came to the house with her father once, but she left and never came back."

"Valeria Twinn," Potter repeated. "I must say I find that a bit strange. I've received a number of reports from worried parents, so she certainly wasn't the only recruit attempt."

"I don't know anything about the others. All I know is she's the only one that ever came into the house."

The Auror's gaze was fixed on him, like he was looking for a nervous tic. "You're sure?"

"Like I said, I was always in the lower ranks," Jeremy asserted through gritted teeth.

Potter stood there for a moment, pondering everything that he had told him. Peppered shouts from Petrov's cell could be heard, and for a brief second, Jeremy was grateful that Vox wasn't his interrogator.

"Is that why they asked you to kidnap Nott? Your expendability?"

"Suppose so." Jeremy thought it would be better to ignore the crass choice of words. "I don't ask questions. I just do as I'm told."

"Why Theodore Nott, though? What did he do?"

Jeremy met his eyes. "All I know is that the Notts had something Geraldine wanted. I went for his wife, but she wasn't there, so I took him instead. We thought the wife might give it up once we had him, but we didn't have time to send any owls. Your team set the place on fire just hours after I brought him in."

" _What_ did she want? Do you know what it was?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Some vase, I guess."

* * *

_Flash! Flash! Flash!_

Draco Malfoy saw spots every time he blinked. The last time he had so many cameras on him was nearly twenty years ago, just after his trial. Back then, he had emerged triumphant. He was not so sure that history would repeat itself.

His cottage had once been a quiet place. Very few knew of his residency there, making it the perfect safe haven as he approached his mid-forties. After Rita Skeeter's article, that all changed. Curious witches and wizards nearly beat his door down, and when he dared to inch open one of the curtains, he was blinded by the media frenzy.

He and Hermione had spent an entire year snogging all over the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and not a soul caught them. Wise from their many years in the spotlight, they were cautious this time. Apparently, it wasn't enough.

If he was being bombarded, he could only imagine what Hermione was going through. When they were seen together as teenagers, judgment ran deep, but it seemed to be much worse for her. Back then, starstruck reporters spun their speculative tales of young romance—a couple defying the odds. Her friends thought little of it. They were simply two enemies forced together by a concerned professor, or so she told them. His family was quick to threaten the reporters, so they stepped down, one by one.

There were always the articles that everyone questioned, though. Most notably was the one that urged his mother to send him many a letter—the same one that had Hermione tearing up over the opinions of Ginny Weasley.

 _Studying together was not quite the same after the_ Daily Prophet _released the photograph of their evening in the Hog's Head. The two of them read over their notes in silence, only exchanging words when they were stuck. It was probably the most civil that they had ever been._

_Suddenly, he heard a sniff._

_Alarmed, he looked up at the bushy-headed Muggle-born. Usually, he would have let her just cry. He may have even found it a bit funny. Something was different between them, though._

_"What are you sobbing about? Get an Exceeds Expectations on your last essay?" The words felt forced. Before, it would have been easy to insult her._

_"No," she breathed, wiping her eyes. "I'm fine."_

_Draco had spent enough time with Pansy Parkinson to know that "I'm fine" meant quite the opposite, so he pressed. "Just tell me. We won't get much done unless you spit it out."_

_"Well if you_ must know, _" she started, setting her quill down on her book, "Ginny and I had a bit of a disagreement."_

_"About what? She find out you used to have a thing for Potter?"_

_"No!" Granger's face flushed. "Harry and I—we aren't—he's like my_ brother _. And it had nothing to do with Harry. It had to do with—" She stopped, as though she weren't sure she should finish her sentence. "—with you, actually."_

 _"With me? What_ about _me?"_

 _While he could only assume it was about the article, his curiosity had gotten the best of him. What was it that Ginny Wesley suspected? No matter what he might say to the ginger's face, she was not stupid enough to believe the mad musings of_ Daily Prophet _reporters._

_"She thought that we were—I don't know—friends, I suppose?" Granger's face crumpled in a way that told him she was not being forthright. "She thought I'd gone mad."_

_"And what did you tell her?"_

_She cleared her throat. "I told her the truth. I was drunk, and she ought to come with me next time so it doesn't happen again."_

It was this painful memory that put one terrible thought in Draco's head. Hermione, wherever she was, was being told that she could never see him again. If the opinions of Ginny Weasley and the rest of her friends drove them apart before, it could happen again. The cameras and his mother's livid Floo messages meant nothing, but the thought of losing Hermione for a second time left him feeling sick.

* * *

As usual, the only person that was willing to talk had little to say. After sending Duncan and Durden back with one of the Portkeys, Harry Potter and Rowan Vox were storming down the dark corridors of Azkaban, quietly discussing everything they learned. Their only saving grace was the undying love of a man that knew next to nothing.

"Preachwell's in love with her," Harry explained, "so I don't know if he knows more and he's protecting her, but I really don't think so. He was the resident Polyjuice brewer and hair collector. Sounds like the biggest job he ever had was kidnapping Nott."

"We could get the Legilimens," Vox suggested. "It's the only way we can know he's not lying."

"You know how Moretti gets when we ask her to come in," Harry said, quite certain that his only Legilimens might quit if he made her talk to Jeremy Preachwell, of all people. "We'll ask for her presence at Bulstrode and Petrov's trial. Don't bother her 'til then."

"Petrov?" Vox frowned. "That the Russian?"

"If you believe Preachwell, then yes."

"Any reason not to?"

"Would be pointless to lie about." Harry shrugged. "I think we'll find out more when we talk to Nott. For now, we have a name. We need to get Travers's escape out to the public so they know to watch out for him. After that, we need to contact the Twinn family to see what exactly happened and why they went to the summerhouse that day. They're a good family from what I understand, so Bulstrode might've—wait, is that—? No, it couldn't be..."

Vikram and a guard that Harry didn't recognize were chuckling by a cell, pointing at an inmate that had not been there when they walked by earlier. The man had torn blue sweatpants and red hair that greyed in patches, a pattern that was all too familiar. As Harry got closer, he realized that his eyes had not deceived him. The prisoner was, in fact, Ron Weasley.

"He's in for treason. Gonna be in for at leas' four years," the pale guard said. "Ten Sickles says so."

"I give it two," Vikram replied, jingling a handful of pocket change. "Potter and his wife will make sure he gets as little time as possible, scheming dunder—"

"Ron!" Harry shouted, hurrying towards the cell. "Ron! What're you doing in here?"

"Harry!" The redhead wrapped his hands around the bars, out of breath. "Thank Merlin you're here! You gotta get me outta here, mate. He—he's got her under the Imperius Curse! I tried to tell 'em but they wouldn't listen to me! She's in danger, Harry! Serious danger. I tried to help, but—"

"Ron, slow down," Harry said, frazzled. " _Who_ is under the Imperius Curse?"

"Hermione!"

Vikram and the other guard began to snigger. Harry shot them a glare.

"Oi, go do your rounds," Vox growled.

The guards did not seem pleased, but did as they were told. An Auror of Vox's caliber could have them fired with just one owl, and they knew it.

"Why do you think she's under the Imperius?" Harry asked. "You talked to her?"

"Oh, I talked to her," Ron spat. His hands were shaking and his breath stunk of booze. Clearly, he had been drinking. "That whole _Malfoy_ _thing_ —she didn't want to do it. I know she didn't!"

"What whole Malfoy thing? That lunch they had awhile ago?"

Harry knew that Ron was mad about the lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, but he had no idea that it was still a sore spot. Draco Malfoy may have been capable of the Imperius Curse when they were young, but in his older age, the man had grown beyond such things. In some ways, Harry would consider Draco a friend. If he avoided his own bias, he might even say that Malfoy was saner than Ron.

"What? No!" Ron exclaimed, distressed. "Did you not see the _Prophet_ today?"

"We were a bit busy bringing in Geraldine Bulstrode and dueling Death Eaters," Vox muttered, leaning against the wall.

"Yeah, well if you _hadn't_ been, you would've seen the prat snogging my wife!"

Harry cocked an eyebrow. _"Malfoy? Draco Malfoy? And Hermione?"_

"Yes, Malfoy!" Ron shouted. "Like I said, he's cursed her! Had his grimy paws all over her, he did!"

That was when Harry started piecing it all together. Hermione's stories not adding up, her coming and going at all times of the night, her generally giddy demeanor. He had met many people under the Imperius Curse. Draco Malfoy, just as he thought, had not cursed her at all. Hermione was having an affair, and she was having it willingly.

"This is serious business, Weasley." Vox gave him a grave look. "Life in Azkaban shit. You got any proof Malfoy did this?"

"Just _talk_ to her! It's all the proof you'll need!" Ron's eyes were glistening and desperate. "Harry, you'll be able to tell. You have to sit down with her. You'll see. She's not acting right. Not herself. You'll be able to see it, Harry. I know you will. Please. _Please_ , just talk to her."

Harry pressed his lips together. "Hang on. Ron, what did you do to get in here?"

The guards had said he was brought in on treason charges. Whatever he had done, he had done it to somebody important, and the sinking feeling in Harry's stomach told him that it was Hermione.

Ron closed his eyes and mumbled something incoherent.

"Come again?"

"I put her in a Full Body-Bind!" he cried. "I had to! To—to help her!"

Harry rubbed his temples. Hermione's affair with Malfoy was shocking, but he knew it was far from the Imperius Curse. Ginny had been right the whole time. Their houseguest was up to no good.

"You know what this means, right? You're facing serious time in here, Ron. And I can't get you out of this one. Neither can she, not that I'm sure she'd want to after what you did."

"It's worth it," Ron whispered. " _She's_ worth it."

Harry decided to keep one pressing thought to himself. Hermione was, in all honesty, not worth it.

* * *

Glimmering vials were strewn across an old cherry desk. Each was marked with a number and a name, and as Gianna Moretti painstakingly delved into each memory, she tucked them away with the coinciding case files. Memory interpretation took up most of her time, though it was not what she was hired to do. After all, Aurors did not play much of a role in trials. They did, however, have to build cases.

She was writing her notes for the Wizengamot when she heard a tap on the window. Frowning, she craned her neck to peek over the many files blocking her view. Just outside the window, a familiar owl hovered, a letter tied to its leg.

 _"Figlio di puttana!"_ she swore, getting to her feet. It was only a short march to the window, and it was not long before she was waving the bird inside, no matter how reluctant she was to do so. "Come on in, you!"

The tawny owl hooted and held out its leg. Gianna untied the envelope and opened it, knowing quite well what it was going to say.

_Moretti,_

_It seems that Lenore Thomas, the Head of the Department of Mysteries, has been missing for a few days. Since no one has been able to get in contact with her, I decided that it was imperative to talk to the last person that saw her. Interestingly enough, that was the Minister for Magic._

_I don't believe her story, and I need you to come into the office to see what she really knows. Come prepared._

_See you soon,_

_Phoebe Humphries_

Gianna frowned. She was not sure how she felt about using Legilimency on the Minister for Magic, especially without the approval of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Nevertheless, Humphries had the authority to ask it of her, and she was not one to ignore orders, even if she disagreed with them.

"Thanks, Windfeather," she said, unscrewing the top of a nearby jar of owl treats. The owl giddily accepted the offering that she had plucked out and flew away.

With a final sigh, she closed the window and turned to her fireplace. The Minister for Magic's memories awaited.


	42. Protectively

It was a beautifully bright day in Majorca. Lenore Thomas let out a sigh of contentment and laced her hands behind her head, her sunglasses on the tip of her nose and her legs crossed at the ankles. No matter what most wizards and witches said about Muggles, one thing about them was certain: they sure knew how to relax.

Only the richest families in the Wizarding world found time to go on holiday, and despite her position as the Head of the Department of Mysteries, Lenore Thomas was far from wealthy. To her, that didn't mean she should avoid holidays altogether; it just meant that she had to take them on the rare occasion that she could.

"Thank you, Minister," she said, grabbing her drink and soaking up the sun-rays.

While Hermione Granger did not know it, she had presented the Seer with a unique opportunity to leave England. The bitter cold of midwinter always put Lenore in a slump, and if she was able to escape to a warmer climate, even if only for a little while, she was going to do just that. It only took a short conversation with her grandson to realize that Majorca was exactly where she wanted to be.

_"You're going on holiday?" he asked. "Don't you have responsibilities at the Ministry?"_

_"Oh, they'll live without me for a few days. Now, tell me more about Spain."_

She giddily sucked on the straw of her mixed drink. Gin wasn't something she had tasted before, but it was quickly becoming her favorite alcoholic beverage. Bubble wine just could not compare to the elixir of lemon, lime, and something sweet and fizzy that she could not pronounce.

A group of laughing Muggle women strolled by, their bottoms almost fully exposed as they snaked between the rocks and muscly men. Lenore, despite her age, was rather enjoying the view, so she cursed the girls as they swarmed around two Muggle men that she had been watching for nearly an hour. Wizards rarely were so toned. They relied on hexes and potions rather than brute strength.

If the Muggle women spent too much time there, she would simply urge them elsewhere. The girls were clearly quite drunk; they wouldn't recognize a little bit of magic.

Suddenly, there were no bikini-clad Muggles at all. Instead, she was peering into the Auror Office. Three women were in the room, nothing more than silhouettes. Though their distorted voices were hard to make out, she knew one of them to be the Minister for Magic.

_"You can't seriously think I would hurt another Ministry employee."_

_"I wish those weren't the charges we were looking at, Minister, but they are," the second woman said. "None of Thomas's underlings seem to know where she is, according to the report I received. Since it's been more than forty-eight hours, we need to find out the truth about her disappearance. If you know anything you haven't told me, now's your chance."_

_"I don't." Hermione Granger was stubborn, but it was one of the many traits that Lenore loved about her._

_"Fine, then. Moretti, shall we?"_

_"_ We? _I'm the only Legilimens here, last I checked."_

_The second woman cleared her throat. "Right. Well, whenever you're ready, yeah?"_

As the vision faded, Lenore let out a sigh. Her holiday was over.

* * *

Owls. More owls than she could count. Narcissa Malfoy knew that her more refined friends would certainly be asking questions about her son's tawdry affair with the Minister for Magic, though most of them did not describe the woman as such. By the time she received the eighth letter, she simply tossed it into the fire and stifled a sob. The news was the least of her concerns.

"Does he not _think?_ " Lucius seethed. "Involving the Mudblood? The affair was bad enough, but does he not understand what the _implications_ are for our family if this all gets out?"

Narcissa sat down, and though her eyes prickled with tears, she straightened her back and folded her hands. "I was displeased to hear of it too."

"Not displeased enough to inform me of his transgression," he hissed. "You should have told me as soon as you found out he was _spending time_ with that _woman_."

"Your anger would have helped nothing," Narcissa said, airily. "I assumed their relationship was strictly professional."

Honesty was not always the best route with her husband. While Narcissa did not like her son's choices when it came to Hermione Granger, she knew that there was no stopping them from being together. Quieting Bellatrix's magic was only possible when two people loved each other more than Bellatrix could hate—and Bellatrix knew no emotion better than hatred.

"If I'd known earlier, we could have tossed that ruddy vase into the ocean and shipped him abroad! Oh, what I would've given to send Parkinson rummaging about the bottom of the North Sea! But here we are, defending the Houses Malfoy and Black once again because of our _imbecile_ of a son." As though on cue, an owl tapped on a nearby windowpane. "Agh!"

Maridel the house-elf gloomily unlatched the window and untied the envelope from the owl's foot. Narcissa held out her hand and accepted the post, deciding it was best not to open it in front of her lamenting husband. Nora Durden had already sent a rather judgmental letter earlier that day, so she could not imagine the woman had anything helpful to add. It was, admittedly, quite strange, though. She hadn't responded to the first letter, so why would the woman send another?

"Draco is a grown man. While I can advise him, it is naive to think I can still tell him what to do. Besides, I didn't know of Bulstrode's little _minions_ ," Narcissa confessed. "My concern was the _legality_ of it all, and I made that quite clear to him."

"Well, perhaps it wasn't clear enough, _Narcissa_." He slammed his palms on the table, earning a wince from Maridel, who was cowering in the corner. "And if he destroyed that vase as you so _wisely_ encouraged him to do, there will be bloodshed. Whether it is his or theirs remains to be seen."

Narcissa sighed, not even a little unnerved by her husband's outburst. She was quite used to his violent mannerisms. "So we warn him and he flees. We will join him and remove Scorpius from Hogwarts if we must."

 _"Warn him?"_ Lucius scoffed. "How many times have you tried to contact him today? At least thrice, yes? Clearly, he isn't willing to listen to _anything_ we have to say. I would bet he's too busy worrying about _her_."

"Then we will visit in person!"

"And if we are too late?"

Narcissa's face drained of all color. "Don't say such things, Lucius."

"All I am _saying_ is that he has made some questionable choices. Assuming reporters have swarmed that filthy _cottage_ of his, his whereabouts will be _very public very soon_. Parkinson may be a bumbling idiot, but you know as well as I do that Iadeth Travers and Thorfinn Rowle are _not_. If they want something and he has it, it could be mere moments before they start closing in on him. He would be hard-pressed to fight _that_ battle alone, but if Bulstrode is with them, he doesn't stand a chance."

"You think they would dare to attack with witnesses?"

"You know the press can't stop those animals. They will kill everyone in their way if there is something they really want." The wizard's irises went dark. "I've seen them do it with my own two eyes—and worse."

No matter who those men were, Lucius swore to protect his family at all costs. Narcissa expected him to do just that. "You wouldn't make such excuses if you were not angry about the Muggle-born."

"Perhaps not," he said, softly. "Are you not angry, Narcissa? It looks like we are colluding with the Ministry. Our friends think we endorse such... _disturbing_ affairs. If Draco survives this fight, consider the _shame_ he will live with. Do you wish that upon him?"

"I wish it over death!"

Lucius was quiet for a long while. Finally, he croaked, "She is unworthy of her magic. His interest in her only encourages her and everyone like her. What does it say about us if we are to come to his rescue _yet again?_ Given the circumstances."

Only during Voldemort's reign had Lucius managed to make her so furious. "Think what you will of her, but don't you _dare_ let our son come into harm's way because of something written by _Rita Skeeter._ You swore to take care of this family after the war. Now, see to it that you do."

He sighed, defeated. "He's been causing us trouble since he was just a boy, hasn't he?"

"You will go then?"

"I suppose I don't have a choice, do I?"

Narcissa, nodded with a small smile. Just as her husband turned away, she stood and opened the letter that had been in her long, feminine fingers. If it had been from anyone else, the envelope would have gone straight into the fire, but Narcissa's curiosity got the best of her. Why would Nora Durden write a second time?

When she finally read the spindly text, she let out a gasp.

"It seems we will not have to worry about Rowle, after all."

"And why is that?" Lucius asked, warily, turning to face her.

Narcissa leveled her gaze with his. "He's dead."

* * *

Theodore Nott was not impressed with the way the Department of Magical Law Enforcement handled hostages. Rather than being taken to the Auror Office like any respected witness would expect to be, the Portkey took them directly to an interrogation room far too small for any single human, let alone two. The Auror that accompanied him there did not seem pleased to be in the room either, and she seemed even more displeased when another man showed up.

"Beatty? When did _you_ get back?" the man asked with a frown. He wiped some grime from his front and jerked his head towards Theo. "One of Bulstrode's little friends?"

"A hostage of hers, actually—and I got back less than an hour ago. Not sure if the others are still sorting things out in Azkaban." Beatty pointed at her cheek. "Is that a spot?"

The man covered the pimple on his face. "Never mind that. D'you need any help with _him?_ " Again, he gestured Theodore. It was almost like he wasn't even in the room.

"No, I've got it under control. Just waiting on Potter for further instruction." Beatty narrowed her eyes. "Where _were_ you, anyway? Unlike you to use a Portkey instead of Apparition."

"Azkaban," the man said, turning away from them as he fiddled with his hair. "Can't exactly Apparate in and out of there, or else I would've. I hate the paperwork that comes with these stupid things." He scrunched a paper bag in his fist.

"Surprised we didn't bump into you."

"It's a big place," the man said matter-of-factly, still fingering his locks. "Has Melman been in here?"

Beatty shook her head. "Haven't seen him."

"Alright, then. I suppose I'll just go find him." He gave Theodore a nod. "Nice to meet you."

Then, the man walked out the door, leaving them alone in the tiny, dingy room.

"I'd like to speak with my wife," Theodore said, dropping his elbow onto the small table so he could rest his chin. "She'll be worried about me."

Beatty gave him an apologetic look and pushed her mahogany locks from her face. "I can't promise anything, but if Potter will allow it, I'll try to arrange something, alright? I can only imagine how much you miss her."

Theodore groaned. "Last time I was gone this long, I was doing a three-month stint in Azkaban."

"When was that?" Beatty asked, clearly curious, but seemingly unfazed.

"A while ago," he mumbled, deciding it was better not to reveal the details. Owing several debts to Draco Malfoy was enough of a sore spot without everyone knowing about it. "Can't say I was happy to be back."

He could not read the Auror's expression as she replied, "Well, hopefully, it's the last time you ever have to go there."

Several silent moments followed. Theo stared at the wooden table where he was sitting, wondering just how long it would be until the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement returned. He could not imagine that Potter had his best interest in mind. They had a rather colorful past.

"Surely, I can at least send her an owl?" he finally said. "I'm not under arrest or anything, so I don't see why I can't!"

The young witch seemed to be considering it for a moment. After a long while, she replied, "I'm sorry. I have to wait until he's back."

So, they waited longer. They had already been in the room for at least an hour, and the wait felt like forever as they sat in the semidarkness of the windowless room. At least Beatty had the sense to cast an Everlasting Charm on the candle so it wouldn't burn out.

By the time Potter finally peeked in through the door, Theodore's patience was wearing thin. He knew the rest of his afternoon would be wasted answering pointless questions as the Auror prodded him for information, eager to take down Bulstrode and everyone associated with her. The woman deserved a lifetime in Azkaban. That much, Theo knew. Unfortunately, he also knew Potter would want to know details that he simply wasn't willing to provide.

"Sorry for the wait," Potter said, closing the door behind him. "Thanks for holding down fort, Beatty. Go home and get some rest."

Beatty opened her mouth, seemingly to argue, but closed it again when Potter gave her a dark look. She sighed and her eyes darted towards Theodore as she pointed at her wrist. Theodore decided that he liked her more than he liked most Aurors, not that that was saying much.

Potter sat across from him as Beatty slipped out the door. He laced his hands. "It's been a while, Nott. You've been staying out of trouble."

"Didn't exactly want the family legacy to be long stays in Azkaban. Best to end the Nott line on a good note, even if I'm a bit late to the game."

"No kids for you and Pansy still?"

Theodore felt a sour taste in his mouth. His wife was dubbed barren when she was just twenty-five, and while he never held it against her, it left the two of them heartbroken. She often tried to convince herself that she never wanted children, but he knew the truth. Sadly, there were not enough potions in the world to give them the gift of parenthood. "We were never so fortunate."

Potter looked uncomfortable. "Erm—right. Sorry to hear. Um...what about Beatty? Treat you well, did she?"

"Indeed," Theodore drawled, crossing his arms. "Since when do you employ Slytherins, Potter?"

"How'd you know she was a Slytherin?"

"The brooch on her robes. A serpent," Theodore explained. "Pansy's mother wears one quite similar to it."

"Mighty observant of you," Potter noted. "You would've made a good Auror if you didn't decide to make Time-Turners for Lucius Malfoy."

Theodore scowled. He knew it would come up, eventually. "Didn't realize I was on trial again."

The Auror coughed. "Let's get to the point then. I don't want to keep you too long."

"Yes, let's."

"Right. Well, Preachwell mentioned a vase. Let's start with that."

"A vase I don't have, first of all," Theo pointed out. "He might be under the impression my wife has it, but she doesn't. I don't want a bunch of Aurors running in there and scaring her. Do you understand me, Potter?"

"I understand." His face betrayed him. The wizard did not understand at all. "So what was so special about this vase? Was it a family heirloom? A Dark object of some sort?"

Theo snorted. "Dark object is an understatement. That bloody thing came from the pits of hell. Belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, from what I understand."

Potter's back stiffened at the mention of the Death Eater's name. It had likely been a long time since he'd heard it. "And where is it now?"

"Destroyed, I hope."

"Is that so?" Potter leaned in. "If it's as powerful as you suggest, that'd take some pretty strong magic, wouldn't it?"

"I'd assume so," Theo answered, stretching his legs.

"So the person that was set on destroying it—I assume you had faith in their wandwork?" the Auror probed. "If you believe they could destroy it, they must be someone quite able."

"I see what you're doing, Potter, and it isn't going to work. I'm not stupid," Theo spat. "I'm not telling you who took it."

"So it was taken? You didn't give it to them?"

Theo flared his nostrils. "You can ask me a hundred different ways. I'm not telling you anything."

Potter looked deep in thought. "And what if it's not destroyed? What if this person is using it the way Bulstrode intended?"

"This _person_ wouldn't dare," Theodore growled. "I'd swear it on my mother's grave."

Potter drew in a deep breath. Deceased mothers were something he could identify with, and Theo knew it. "We may need to retrieve it, Nott. In case— _in case your friend failed._ "

"Never said it was a friend," Theo said, stubbornly. He raised his brows. "Look, if you really want to know more about that horrible vase, you're going to have to use Veritaserum on Bulstrode or one of her cronies. I'm not under arrest and if I really wanted to, I could Apparate home right now."

Potter sighed. "And then I could arrest you for obstruction of justice. Face it, Nott, you're not in the good position here."

"What're you going to do, then? Put _me_ under Veritaserum? You know my trial would be thrown out in a _second_ and you'd be facing more public scrutiny than Bulstrode herself." Theodore narrowed his eyes. "I know what you want Potter, but you have to trust me here. If there's even an inkling that that vase wasn't taken care of, I'll be knocking on your door before you come knocking on mine."

"I need you to understand something. That this is an urgent matter, Nott. I'll bring in a Legilimens if I have to. The Ministry's left us that nice little loophole for cases just like this, and they left it for a reason."

"Go ahead. Bring in your Legilimens. They'll find nothing."

"You're an Occlumens," Potter deduced.

"A bloody good one, so I've been told. Now, since you've arrested everyone you needed to arrest, I'd like to get back to my wife now."

Potter's face paled. "We've arrested _almost_ everyone. There is still one that I worry about—" His face went from white to purple. "—and I can't protect you from him if you don't tell me where that damn vase is!"

Theo's insides twitched with horror. There were two men in particular that had come to mind. " _Who_ do you worry about, Potter? Who were you so _stupid_ to let get away?"

By the look on Potter's face, Theo knew he wouldn't like his answer. "Iadeth Travers. He—he summoned his broom and got away."

"Travers!" Theodore exclaimed, both angry and mortified. " _He summoned his broom?_ Shouldn't you have expected as much, considering your little run-in with that dragon in fourth year?"

"Yes, I suppose I should've. Rowle is dead, though—and we're going to have the public on watch—"

" _The public?_ The public doesn't stand a chance against that maniac! And my wife—surely, you've sent someone to watch her?"

The Auror's silence spoke volumes.

"You didn't!" Theodore seethed. "Do you have any idea what kind of danger Pansy is in? You have to let me leave, Potter. Forget what I said about not running in with a bunch of Aurors! Bring them all! Just _get me home to her_."

"Nott, you're _sure_ that vase isn't in your home?"

"I'm bloody sure!"

Potter looked like he was trying to make a decision. "Okay. Let's get you both out of there safely. I'll bring my best. But afterwards, I need you to tell me who took that vase. Got it?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever, but we have to go _now!_ "

Just as expected, Potter didn't get what he wanted before he ran to the rescue. For once, Theodore was grateful for the blind courage of Gryffindor House.

* * *

The clock was ticking. Seated across from the only Auror she truly detested, the Minister for Magic counted the seconds. The longest hand would tick forward a notch, then back two, then forward three. It was driving her absolutely mad, but she did not dare cast any wandless magic—not when Phoebe Humphries was eager to charge her with anything she could.

Suddenly, the door to the large office opened. Hermione held her breath, but to her relief, it was only the likes of Nelson Melman, a rather kind Auror who seemed to have no interest in her arrest. A fat sandwich was in his grip and as soon as he plopped into his desk chair, he took a rather large bite. Some mustard dripped onto his robes, and despite her situation, Hermione could not help but smile. Every arrest he made that she questioned ended in cleared charges, partially due to his inability to show up in court. He was the type of Auror that shouldn't have been following orders made by Phoebe Humphries. If Hermione had it her way, Nelson Melman would have a lot more power than Harry Potter was willing to give him.

Then, the door creaked open again, and her smile was wiped away.

A plump brunette quietly slipped inside, and by the grin on Humphries's face, Hermione knew she was in trouble. She suddenly wished she spent more time learning Occlumency with Draco when they were young.

"Ah! Just the witch I was looking for," Phoebe said with a smirk. "This is the suspect I spoke of."

The woman's eyes flickered towards Hermione. "Yes, I recognize the Minister for Magic." Her Italian accent was thick.

"Yeah, well, after this, who knows who she'll be. Melman, could you please come over here? I'd like another witness for this."

Melman did not look pleased, but walked over anyway, sandwich still in hand. He shook his head. "You know how crazy this is, right?"

Humphries gave him a cautionary glare. "Watch it, Melman." She turned back to the brunette. "You're looking for _Lenore Thomas_. You know the older black woman from the Department of Mysteries?"

"I'm familiar," the brunette said, acidly.

"Good, good," Humphries said, ignoring the witch's tone. "We think the Minister for Magic may have used a Memory Charm or possibly could have murdered her."

"Oh please!" Hermione exclaimed. Humphries had said the same things before, but still, it made the Minister's blood boil. Never would she kill an innocent person. " _Murdered_ her? You can't seriously think I would hurt another Ministry employee."

"I wish those weren't the charges we're looking at, Minister, but they are," Humphries explained. "None of Thomas's underlings seem to know where she is, according to the report I received. Since it's been more than forty-eight hours, we need to find out the truth about her disappearance. If you know anything you haven't told me, now's your chance."

"I don't." She did.

"Fine, then. Moretti, shall we?"

 _"We?"_ the woman repeated, seemingly annoyed. "I'm the only Legilimens here, last I checked."

Hermione expected Humphries to snap back with something nasty, but she didn't. Instead, she cleared her throat. "Right. Well, whenever you're ready, yeah?"

The brunette drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. With her wand in her hand, she appeared to be concentrating very hard. Hermione thought she was going to vomit as she watched the woman's mouth move, nearly in slow motion. _"Legilimens."_

 _Draco. They were young_ — _dumb teenagers in love, but too afraid to say as much. He pressed his lips to her shoulder._

The moment did not last for long, because before she knew it, it was twenty years later.

_They were in Flourish and Blotts. Unspoken sadness surrounded them._

The place was gone as quickly as it came. She felt the wind in her hair.

 _The lake. He was trying to talk to her, but she was avoiding him_ — _avoiding the truth._

Her breathing hitched. The next vision was the one she feared most.

 _She read the text on Lenore's office door. Her feet carried her inside. She opened her mouth to speak, and then_ —

"Minister, I've been looking for you." The voice, unlike the others, did not sound so far away.

They were in the present again. Humphries looked furious. Melman idly chewed on his sandwich. Moretti had lost her focus and was staring, dumbfounded, at the source of the words.


	43. Peculiarly

All eyes were on Lenore Thomas. The Minister for Magic looked from her to Phoebe Humphries, wondering both what was going through the Auror's mind and what the woman of the hour had come to say. She had heard rumors that powerful Seers could not be obliviated, but she certainly never thought it to be true.

"It can't be," Humphries whispered, furiously. "This is a trick! Polyjuice! I'll bet a hundred Galleons that that is Draco Malfoy—"

"Draco Malfoy?" Lenore's baritone chortle came from the depths of her belly. "I most definitely am not Draco Malfoy, though I must thank you for thinking an old girl like me could pull off blonde. Tried it. Ended up zapping it back as quick as I could move my wand."

The Auror's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

"Is it really _that_ odd to see me? Goodness me. Perhaps I ought to start coming out of my office more often. I wouldn't want anyone to think me antisocial," Lenore blabbered on, buttoning her jacket. "Sweet Merlin, do you always keep it so cold in here?"

"But—but you—" Humphries choked on her words.

" _As I said_ , I'm here to chat with the Minister for Magic," Lenore interjected. She tapped her forehead. "Little birdie told me that I might just find her here, and turns out I was right."

Hermione was prone to anxiety attacks as a girl, and it seemed her symptoms had returned just then. Fanning herself, she dared to ask, "Yes, well, what would you like to chat about?"

"Oh, nothing too pressing. I just wanted to thank you," Lenore started, leveling her gaze with Hermione's, "for the brief holiday. Majorca was just lovely. But I did want to see if more time off in the future would be possible—perhaps in autumn? I'd quite like to get back, as this trip was _cut a bit short._ "

Hermione did not know what Lenore Thomas was playing at, but it seemed they both wanted the same thing. Rather than question her luck, the Minister for Magic simply stammered, "Erm—yes, o-of course. Any time, Lenore. Just send the paperwork over and I'll take care of it."

"Majorca?" Humphries breathed, glaring icily at Hermione. "You didn't say anything about Majorca!"

"I don't remember every piece of paperwork I sign off on," Hermione answered through gritted teeth, which was actually true. "I'm sure you wouldn't remember a time-off request you signed a year ago either."

"But surely, she would've told someone else!" the Auror boomed. She turned to Nelson Melman. "Right? _Someone_ in her department would've known!"

"I don't tell my team about my personal affairs. We don't exactly share an office like all you lot," Lenore quipped. "If you asked my grandson, however, he might've mentioned it."

Seething, Humphries stared down Hermione. The Minister for Magic knew that Humphries was sure she had a hand in Lenore's disappearance, yet it didn't matter. Lenore herself had denounced such claims, and unless they wanted to say she was under the Imperius Curse, the bushy-headed witch would get away with breaking the law— _again_.

Moretti collapsed into a nearby desk chair and crossed her arms. "What a complete and utter waste of my time."

"I guess I'm a bit confused what all the fuss is about. Surely, my little holiday wasn't a _problem?_ "

"No, not a _problem_ ," Humphries muttered, though her tone suggested that it very much was.

The large woman sighed. "Well, I suppose I have no reason to stick around then. Minister, I'll get my request in for some time off in October. I recently discovered something called a Citrus Sunshine and I'd quite like to get back to Spain to try it again. Have you ever tried gin, Minister? Oh, maybe you have... You are a Muggle-born, after all..."Lenore had just started towards the door when she exclaimed "Oh, sorry!" and skirted around someone. An out of breath Harry Potter slid into the room, Theodore Nott on his tail.

"Humphries, Melman," he heaved. "I need both of—Hermione?"

Hermione gave him a small smile and waggled her fingers. He was covered in dirt and his hair was sticking out every-which-way, looking much like she remembered him looking when they were in school. So much had happened since she last saw him. "Hi, Harry."

"I saw Ron when I was just in Azkaban," he said, quickly. "I can't believe—I mean—are you alright?"

"I've been better," she admitted, raking over Phoebe Humphries. The scowl on the woman's face was still quite apparent. "I'd like to leave, honestly. Unless that clock on the wall is wildly incorrect, it's a bit late."

"Why is she still here?" Harry demanded. He seemed much taller than he was when he towered over the short Legilimens and a seated Nelson Melman. "Melman, surely you've already questioned her."

"Sure did," Melman confirmed, chewing through the last bite of his sandwich. He licked his fingers and regarded Humphries. "I told her this was crazy."

" _What_ was crazy? _What_ did you do?" Harry badgered. Questions that Hermione could answer went untouched, mostly because some petty part of her wanted to watch Humphries fumble through her explanation. "And why in Merlin's name is Moretti here?"

"There's no time for chit-chat, Potter," Nott hissed, grabbing Harry by the shoulder. "My wife is in danger!"

"Yes, clearly there's an emergency!" Humphries agreed, obviously hoping to put off the confrontation. Even Hermione had to admit it was the best strategy, considering Harry could be incredibly hotheaded. "Where are we headed?"

"Answer the question, Humphries."

The room would have been silent if Theodore Nott wasn't repeating, "can't this wait?" and "hurry up!" every few seconds. Nobody wanted to snitch on the woman on the spot, and that is when it occurred to Hermione that her coworkers were afraid of her. It made sense. How else would she convince an entire team of Aurors to arrest a man for enchanting a television set?

"She thought the Minister murdered Lenore Thomas," Melman finally caved. "I knew Moretti wouldn't find anything, but I have to follow orders, y'know?"

Harry furrowed his brow. "Is this true? You apprehended the _Minister for Magic_ without my approval?"

"Potter! We have to go!"

Humphries nodded at Nott. "Based on his urgency, I'm going to assume he's right. We ought to be off."

Harry appeared to be deep in thought for several seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Travers got away. We need to get to the Nott estate. But _don't think this is over._ " He wagged an accusatory finger at her. "I'll see you at home, Hermione."

Hermione desperately wanted to tell him that he wouldn't, but it seemed that it was not the time. Instead, she nodded and left the Auror Office, turning at the end of the long hallway to stop by the lift. There was no way she trusted herself Apparating—not when her stomach was churning at the thought of Iadeth Travers escaping the clutches of Aurors.

* * *

Nightfall came and still, the din of hungry reporters flooded Draco Malfoy's ears. It was only when the fireplace roared to life that he dared to look up from his clasped hands, hoping to see a sign of the woman he cared about. He had been waiting for her—waiting all evening for some kind of news that she was safe. Unfortunately, it was not Hermione Granger that stepped through the grates.

"Mother?" he breathed, before being swept into a matriarchal embrace. Just over her shoulder, he saw his father follow, a bitter frown on his lips. "Father?"

"Oh, Draco! I feared we may have been too late," Narcissa Malfoy cried. She pulled away and grasped him by the shoulders, her eyes bloodshot and searching. "When you did not answer me earlier, I thought—"

"Quit coddling him, Narcissa," Lucius scolded, pointing at Draco with his cane. "He isn't a boy anymore."

Narcissa sucked in her cheeks and backed away, her blue eyes still swirling with worry. Draco knew she did not approve his relationship with Hermione, but there was something else. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

"I suspect you two are here to discuss the news," he said, coldly.

"No, we have talked about that enough for one day, I think," Narcissa replied, her eyes darting to her husband. "We have come because of a visitor that we had earlier today. He seemed to be looking for you."

"And who was this _visitor?_ " Draco half-expected it to be another reporter.

 _"Perdell Parkinson,"_ Lucius sneered. His knuckles went white from squeezing the head of his cane. "He wanted that _vase_ of yours."

"Too bad for him that it's gone," Draco retorted, leaning back against the sofa. He laced his fingers behind his head. "Hermione and I destroyed it."

His father made a face at the mention of Hermione's name. Even after the war, the man could not admit just how wrong he was about her and people like her. Perhaps, if Draco was twenty years younger, he would have basked in his father's displeasure. However, he was a grown man, and it only made him angry. It was not Hermione Granger that was unworthy of her magic. It was Lucius Malfoy that was unworthy of his.

"Yes, I thought that might be the case," Narcissa muttered, looking at her husband again. "We have to get you to France, my darling son. Quickly."

"I'm not going to France!"

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "I do not know if you've heard the news, _Draco_ , but Thorfinn Rowle is dead—at the hands of Potter. Milton Durden's wife sent us a letter confirming as much. It seems, _however_ , that Travers is _not_ in Azkaban and he is _quite_ alive and well. Parkinson is the _least_ of your worries."

Draco had not forgotten about his Death Eater problem. Inwardly, he cursed Harry Potter. With a team of Aurors, he still managed to let Iadeth Travers escape.

"I can handle Travers," he said, though he wasn't as confident as he let on. "What about Parkinson? Pansy sent him, did she?"

"Pansy is the name of his girl, yes?" Lucius asked. No matter how many times he met Pansy, he always seemed to forget her name. She was meant to be the next Lady Malfoy at one time, but she was nothing more than a marital pawn—an object with a sizable inheritance.

"Yes." It was hard to hide his annoyance. "She's his daughter."

"Then, yes. He came on her behalf, asking more questions than I wanted to answer, I might add."

"I assume you told him nothing."

"You know how I feel about _assumptions_ , Draco, but you are, fortunately for you, correct this time. I told him nothing. He is, however, going to find you quite quickly with all of the _undesirables_ outside." Lucius's nose puckered. "Your secret cottage is not so secret anymore."

"I know you love this place, darling, but France will be much safer," Narcissa explained. "I can send an owl to McGonagall and retrieve Scorpius if we must—"

"I've already told you, you aren't sending me off to France," Draco insisted, stubbornly. It was not the first time they tried shipping him away when he got in trouble. Back then, he was able to convince them to send him back to Hogwarts instead. "I'm a grown man. I'll fight my own battles."

"Do not make rash decisions for that _woman_." Narcissa, while she was the gentler of his parents, still had her prejudices. Plus, Hermione Granger was the reason she had to start paying her house-elves. That was something Draco knew she could never forgive.

Then, the fireplace roared again. The very woman Narcissa spoke of emerged from the grates, her hair sticking out in every direction and her lips pressed into a firm line.

* * *

Usually, the Burrow was a quiet place. With all of their children long gone, Molly and Arthur Weasley were able to enjoy some silence at long last, only interrupting it to discuss things like new Ministry regulations and recipes that Molly wanted to try. Old age treated them well, but with such a large family, even the golden years could quickly turn to chaos. Their daughter-in-law was living proof.

"I cannot believe that woman!" Molly screeched, rummaging through one of the kitchen cupboards. She seized a pot and slammed it atop the counter. "She might think she's too good for our son but she'll learn her lesson if I have anything to say about it! If she comes within _ten feet_ of my wand, so help me God—"

Arthur, on the other hand, was reticent, his nose deep in _The Magic of Muggles._ He did not know what to make of his daughter-in-law's affair, but he was not one to jump to conclusions, especially when it came to people he knew well. Rita Skeeter was a snake, and a bright one at that.

"We took in her children!" Molly ignited the stove with a wordless Fire-Making Spell. "Treated her like our own, we did!"

Arthur nodded, deciding that it was best to let her carry on. The news was shocking, but he still thought it was all a hoax. Spinning tales was Rita Skeeter's favorite pastime, and it would not surprise him if she enchanted that photograph to look like something that it wasn't. She was clever enough to manage as much.

"And _the Malfoy boy_ , of all people! With all he did to her growing up!" Ingredients were flying into the pot, but Arthur was not sure that all of them were intentional. He cringed as his wife turned around, completely unaware of the fact that her meal was going to consist of chocolate and radishes. "I heard he called her a Mud—well, you know the word! That awful, _awful_ word! Even after what she did to Ron, I would _never!_ "

Draco Malfoy was hardly a boy anymore, but correcting her was not in Arthur's best interest.

"Our son may not be perfect, but he isn't a _Death Eater!_ Oh, I knew it was strange she was seen with that man at the Leaky Cauldron. Harry has said he's trustworthy, but I just never quite believed it. No I didn't." She stuck her wand in the pot, stirring the horrific concoction with vigor. "Oh, Harry, such a good boy, but I think he sees good where there is none sometimes..."

In fact, Molly _did_ believe their son-in-law when he vouched for Draco Malfoy. Article after article claimed his son was the child of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and she was quick to say she did not believe a word of it.

_"He was just a boy. Of course, he did what he did! With parents like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy..." she had said._

Arthur thought it was best not to remind her of that.

"I just knew something wasn't quite right—and what about the children! I just can't bear to think what my poor Rose and Hugo must be feeling. All of Hogwarts must know by now." She emptied the reeking pot into two bowls. "Children can be just awful. After what happened to our little Albus, I just can't imagine what they're doing to Hugo and Rose. I hope Minvera has the sense to give them a private dormitory like they did for Albus and—" She plopped two spoons into the bowls. "—that _boy._ "

That part, Arthur _did_ regret. He may have known how dishonest Rita Skeeter was, but the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry certainly did not. His grandchildren, whether the news was true or not, were surely being ridiculed.

* * *

The fireplace was crackling in the Gryffindor common room. It was strangely empty for the time of evening, but it seemed that everyone coming in from dinner went straight to their dormitories, eager to avoid the gaze of the room's only occupant. The boy had made quite a reputation for himself that day, hexing anyone and everyone that said the wrong thing. Rumors claimed that he had earned detention until the end of the year. The rumors were right.

With a newspaper on the sofa beside him, he pushed his fiery red hair from his eyes. The front cover mocked him. No matter how many questions he had, he knew none of them would be answered—not by his mother, not by his father, and most certainly not by Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy: that was who made the news so hard to swallow. Hugo Granger-Weasley always thought of his mother as the responsible one, but she was not only friends with a Malfoy. She was having an affair with one.

Curfew came and went, and still he sat in the same spot, seething. He read the article over and over, though he eventually burned the moving picture. There was only so many times he could watch his mother snogging Malfoy without stopping to vomit. It had to be his eighth read-through when his sister slipped through the portrait hole, her hair disheveled and an annoyed look on her face.

"Why are you still awake?" Rose snarled.

"I could ask you the same. What's with the hair?"

"Medina Brooks," she growled, combing her fingers through the mess of tangles. "She enchanted one of the newspapers to follow me everywhere. It got all caught in my hair when Scorpius tried to get it off of me."

Hugo drew his brows together and folded the newspaper into his lap. "You were with _Scorpius?_ "

"Well, him and Albus, but yeah," Rose said, nonchalantly.

"But he's—his dad is—"

"It's not _his_ fault." Rose plopped onto the sofa next to him. "Besides, they told me something pretty interesting when I was in there. Albus reckons it has to do with that big Bulstrode case that Uncle Harry was working on."

"What is it?" Venom was still in Hugo's voice. Anything that had to do with the Malfoys couldn't be good, but he had to admit, he did want to learn more about the Bulstrode case. She had been in the _Daily Prophet_ for years, and somehow, nobody seemed to know much about her.

 _"Apparently_ , Scorpius went into the forest earlier in the day and he saw the most peculiar thing..." Rose trailed off.

Hugo raised a brow. "Hardly a shock. Dad always said that forest was weird. Giant spiders and actual giants and centaurs and the like—I'd be surprised if he _didn't_ see something funny in that awful place."

"No, it wasn't anything like that. According to Scorpius, it wasn't a creature at all. It was a man—a man on a broom."


	44. Resentfully

The Nott estate reminded Harry Potter of Malfoy Manor. It was, however, much less foreboding, though perhaps that was only because Harry had never been imprisoned there. The halls were stark white and house-elves clambered in and out of the place, some of them greeting their master, while others seemed to simply want to ogle at Harry himself.

"I hope you will excuse the mess, Master Nott," the elf called Galdron said, his small hands clasped behind his back. "You see, Lady Nott has been a bit _upset_ as of late."

Theodore Nott didn't seem at all worried about the supposed mess, but perhaps that was because there _was_ no mess. Everything appeared to be perfectly placed, sans an elf that sobbed on a small bench in the hallway. Galdron shot the elf a resentful glare and she quickly collected the skirt of her dress and scurried away, repeating "Master cannot see! Tilly is not done!" over and over again.

"She has been _acting up_ again, sir," Galdron explained, sourly. "If it were not for her constant whining all about the house, the rest of us would have already resolved the _mess_ I spoke of. This morning she tracked dirt in from the garden."

"I will take care of it later," Nott said, nonchalantly. "For now, I'd like to see my wife."

The elderly house-elf (to Harry, he resembled Kreacher), snapped his fingers and the wall that had seemed quite solid had disappeared. A winding staircase replaced it, surrounded by dozens of portraits that looked a lot like the ones in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Nott thanked Galdron and climbed the steps, seemingly immune to the nasty comments that the portraits began hurling at him. Harry instructed his team to stay downstairs with the house-elf and made the ascent with Nott.

"Is _he_ back?" a pug-faced woman complained. "I wonder how he would feel knowing _Draco Malfoy_ has been coming around during his absence."

Harry frowned, wondering what business Draco Malfoy had with the Notts. It seemed his childhood nemesis had not only been making himself busy with the Minister for Magic, but with old friends too.

"Hopefully, he will leave that dreadful woman!" a bucktoothed portrait spat back.

They were nearing the top step when Harry decided to ask, "Were you aware Draco Malfoy was spending time with your wife?"

"No," Nott replied, simply. They reached the top stair, which seemed to end in blackness, but when Nott tapped his wand against the railing, a wide corridor was revealed. "Only mine and Pansy's wands are able to access this hallway. But the house-elves could let anyone in, theoretically."

Harry nodded and followed the wizard down the long, violet hall. He was not sure how long they had been walking when Nott stopped in front of a black door and knocked several times. It seemed like it had been ages.

"Galdron, I _told_ you, only come up here if—" The door opened and Pansy Nott's eyes widened. "Th-Theo?"

Theodore Nott could not even get out a response before the woman had thrown her arms around his neck, chanting sweet nothings and repeatedly calling him "bunnums". While the tacky nickname reminded Harry of Ron and Lavender Brown in their sixth year, the reunited husband and wife still made his heart ache. Until then, he did not realize just how much he had missed Ginny since he had been in Cornwall.

_"Ahem."_

Pansy, still latched onto her husband's arm, turned to Harry and whispered, "Potter, you—you brought him back. You saved him."

For the first time in his life, Harry smiled at who he once knew to be Pansy Parkinson. Admittedly, he liked Pansy Nott much better.

She turned on her heel, tugging Nott along with her. "If you'll just wait downstairs, I have a few thousand Galleons in a safe up here. Name your price. My thanks to you..."

Harry held up his hands. "I don't want your gold, Pansy. We actually—well, we actually need to be prepared. Iadeth Travers is on the loose and your husband seems to believe he could be coming for the both of you. Now, I want you to lock yourself here in this room and—"

"Travers?" Pansy hissed with disbelief. "Where's Rowle?"

"Dead."

She muttered something under her breath that Harry couldn't quite make out, but he would have sworn the last bit of it was "Malfoy".

"I'm coming to help," Nott said, firmly. "This is my home and I will protect it." He looked down at his wife, but only slightly, as she was not as short as Harry remembered her being. "Pansy, I want you to stay up here."

She glared at him, though she clearly wasn't angry enough to detach herself from his arm. "Absolutely not! I've been sequestered away in this room for far too long, and I won't do it anymore, Theodore. I'm not just some pet you can cage up whenever you like!"

"Pansy, it's dangerous—"

"I don't care! If I have to spend another minute looking at this foul purple color, I'll _vomit_ ," she exaggerated. "Speaking of which, remind me to have the house-elves paint it _grey_ up here. Yes, that will be much better..."

"Pansy, dear—"

"I want to be _downstairs_ in _my_ home, Theodore! Not this—this _hovel!_ " She let go of him to gesture the bedroom. Harry certainly would not have considered it a hovel, but Pansy had always seemed a bit spoiled. "Surely, you won't tell me I can't do what I want."

Nott went to say something, but faltered. "Just think this through is all I ask. Like I said, it's dangerous."

She made a high-pitched sound that Harry could only describe as a declaration of resolve.

"Alright, then," he said, "sounds like she's decided. Let's get a move on, yeah?"

Even though Nott seemed unconvinced, he knew how to pick his battles. Harry wouldn't argue with Ginny if she sounded so sure of herself, so as a married man, he thought Nott made the right choice.

Downstairs they went, earning confused glances from Nelson Melman and Phoebe Humphries. Pansy Nott clung to her husband's arm once more, but she was still a pure-blood, and she could not help but give the grand tour of their home. As she sauntered in and out of each room, Harry realized that most of the rooms and hallways had one feature in common: fireplaces. While it was aesthetically pleasing, he was afraid they may pose a problem.

"The grates aren't all connected to the Floo Network, are they?"

"No," Pansy replied. "Only the one in the main sitting room and one on the third story. The one upstairs you'd need to know the right phrase for."

Harry nodded. "Well, I've made sure no one can Apparate in or out. He was traveling by broom, though, and that could be an issue. The protective enchantments will slow him down, but not for long."

"We have our own protective enchantments as well," Pansy said, dreamily. "He would be hard-pressed to bypass those and yours both, I imagine."

"It's not impossible, though." Harry did not feel it was necessary to remind her that Jeremy Preachwell, of all people, had gotten past the estate's wards before.

Humphries looked around the giant house, squinting. "It'd be better if you gave us the vase. We could draw him out."

"For the last time, we don't have the vase!" Theodore Nott scowled. "If we did, we would have given it to them long ago. You think I'd put my wife in danger over some mantelpiece knickknack?"

"But if you could tell us who _does_ have it," Harry said, seeing his chance, "and then we could possibly have this all resolved in no time. Fish him out with the vase, and put him back in Azkaban where he belongs."

Pansy Nott opened her mouth but shut it as soon as she exchanged glances with her husband. The couple, much like Ginny and Harry, were able to communicate without saying a word.

Harry sighed. "Pansy, I hate to bring it up in case he was here for a—" He met Nott's eyes. "— _different_ reason, but why was Draco Malfoy visiting you while your husband was gone?"

Disgust lined her features and for a brief moment, Harry saw the pug-faced girl he remembered from school. "He heard of Theo's disappearance and came to check up on me. We're old friends, though I'm sure I don't have to remind you of that."

It was of no use. Draco Malfoy had something to do with the case, but the Notts were not going to admit as much—not when they were in the same room, anyway. If Malfoy had been anyone else, it would have been easy to justify a quick shakedown. Unfortunately, he was wealthy, he was smart, _and_ he was involved with the Minister for Magic, so without evidence, Harry had no choice but to wait until he had Pansy on her own. Without her husband in the room, she _might_ just tell him what he wanted to know.

* * *

There was nothing left in Britain, at least not for Irina Petrov. Despite how little she remembered of Russia, she decided that it was truly her only option, after everything that she had witnessed. Of course, there was no way to Apparate so far away, and because she was on the run, she could not get a legal Portkey either. A single background check would tell the Ministry that Vitaly Petrov was her father, and because of the nature of his crimes, she knew she would be brought in for questioning. Fortunately for her, she did not need a legal Portkey. Dabbling in the Dark Arts did have its perks, after all.

"All the way to Moscow?"

"Yes, Ardus, all the way to Moscow," Irina said with a roll of her eyes. "Getting me halfway there isn't going to help me much, is it?"

"Alright, alright," Ardus Castle muttered, pressing his wand against an old, battered glove. "You know this is gonna cost ya. If the Ministry finds out—"

"They won't." Irina crossed her arms. "How much do you need?"

He looked deep in thought for a minute, until finally, a mischievous grin made its way onto his dry, cracked lips. "A hundred and fifty Galleons." The grin grew wider. " _Or_ a kiss."

Irina shuddered and dug deep in her knapsack. "A hundred and fifty, it is." She felt the cold sensation of metal and she pulled a handful of gold out. After counting seventy-eight Galleons, she reached back in the knapsack to retrieve the rest. By the time she had piled the gold on the table before him, she only had twelve Galleons left. She only hoped Russia's cost of living was as cheap as her father let on.

Ardus looked a bit annoyed, but reluctantly accepted the full amount and went back to fiddling with the glove. "If anyone asks where you got this, I had nothing to do with it. You understand me?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever. Can you just hurry it up?"

Ardus glared at her for a second, but tapped his wand against the glove several more times. It wasn't long before he leaned back with a sigh. "It's done, then." Irina reached out and he smacked her hand. "Only touch it if you're ready!"

She took a deep breath and nodded. Everything she knew so well was about to change, but after all that she had been through, perhaps change was not such a bad thing.

"I'm ready."

* * *

After a day as long as Hermione Granger's, there was only one person that she wanted to see. The wait for the fireplaces was far longer than she would have liked, and as she felt the pull of the Floo Network, relief washed over her. Willow Ale Court was mere seconds away.

Finally, she came to a halt and let out a cough. Traveling by Floo often made her choke a bit, so naturally, she preferred Apparition whenever possible. Nevertheless, she gladly wiped the soot from her cheek and stepped through the grates, eager to take in the familiar aroma of Draco Malfoy's home. To her dismay, she did smell a familiar scent, but it was not of hardwood and Fraser—it was the same expensive perfume she had smelled many weeks earlier.

"Minister," Narcissa Malfoy acknowledged her, disdainfully.

Hermione blinked a few times, her vision still cloudy from flecks of ash. Three ghostly faces stared back at her, two scowling and one apologetic. Evidently, her long day was far from over.

"Narcissa." Hermione echoed the woman's tone. "Lucius."

"It seems you are even more foolish than I thought," Narcissa said, coolly, sitting down in the nearby armchair. She crossed her legs. "I have to assume you've been instructed to stay away from my son."

"Well, I might remind you that I don't always do as I'm _instructed_."

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "Yes, it seems you and Draco have that in common."

"My parents were just leaving," Draco said, escorting Hermione to the sofa. _"Weren't you?"_

"We were doing no such thing!" Narcissa scowled. Even in the armchair, she was far too close for Hermione's comfort. "You may not be aware of this, _Minister_ , but somehow, Thorfinn Rowle and Iadeth Travers escaped Azkaban and _somehow_ , your Aurors let Travers get away a second time!"

"I'm aware," Hermione muttered. She was just as unhappy about it as they were.

"And are you aware that he will be coming for Draco?"

"Bloody hell, Mother, she just got here and already you're hounding her!" Draco shouted. "If the two of you would be so kind as to leave me and my guest—"

"We will _not!_ " Narcissa Malfoy insisted. "Draco, you cannot let this—this _woman_ blind you! You _must_ go to France before it's too late!"

"France?" Hermione inquired, slowly. She knew of their house in France, but never did she think Draco would actually consider going there. He had a son to think about. "Draco, what is she talking about?"

"Nothing. I'm not going anywhere."

"Narcissa, we cannot _force_ him to use his head," Lucius said, slyly. Hermione felt his cold gaze on her. "He simply cannot control himself when it comes to the _Mudblood_."

"Don't you _dare_ call her that!"

"You prove my point, Draco," Lucius sneered. "We ought to be going, Narcissa. Clearly, there will be no convincing him while _she's_ here."

Narcissa folded her hands in her lap. "No. I will not leave my son in harm's way because of some Muggle-born _trollop!_ "

Hermione wanted to stand up for herself, but she knew it was hard to argue when she was, technically and very publicly, cheating on her husband. Instead, she ground her teeth together.

" _Trollop?_ " Draco breathed. It had been years since Hermione heard such hate in his voice. "How _dare_ you speak of her in such a way! Mother, I have never raised my wand to you, and I do not want to start tonight, but if you utter one more ill word of her, you will leave me with no other choice. Do you understand?"

"Who do you think you are? Threatening your mother like that!" Lucius hissed. Narcissa simply let out a derisive laugh, one that only seemed to come through her nose. "After she birthed you, raised you, bathed you! You ungrateful, Mudblood-fucking—"

That was all it took. Draco seized his wand and pointed it at his father's throat. "Do not test me, Father."

Lucius's Adam's apple jerked with a gulp. "Narcissa, it seems we have overstayed our welcome."

"But Lucius—"

"If your son wants to die for this woman, then let him," Lucius said, his voice raised. "It would not be the first time he embarrassed this family."

Narcissa stood up and quickly walked towards her husband, her watering eyes fixed on her son. "Draco, please, see reason."

"I could ask the same of you," Draco growled, lowering his wand. "I do not want any bad blood between us, but when you are under my roof, you _will_ respect her. Do I make myself clear?"

"Come, Narcissa," Lucius said, sourly, holding out a hand to her. "We can only hope this won't be the last time we see him alive."

Narcissa emitted a loud sob and took his hand. With tears streaming down her face, she Disapparated with her husband.

Draco crossed the room and sat beside Hermione on the sofa. His brows were knit together, though she could not tell if it was out of anger or sadness. Perhaps, it was both. "I'm sorry about all that. Even after all this time, they are still stuck in their ways."

"It's fine." She lay her head on his shoulder. "Really, being called a Mudblood was probably one of the highlights of my day."

He combed his fingers through her hair, splaying them as he met the inevitable tangles. "I can't imagine what the press has been like for you. They've been here all bloody day."

"The press has been the least of my worries. Ginny didn't take the news too well, and then, Ron—well, I tried to get him to sign the papers and he wasn't very happy about it..."

Draco frowned. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

She cleared her throat, unsure exactly how she was supposed to explain what happened. "Well, no, not exactly. He—he seemed to think you cursed me and he was quite keen on undoing it—or making you undo it, rather."

"Cursed you? Are you serious?"

"I am," she said, averting her gaze. "And I um—I don't know if I'll ever get him to sign those papers, being that he's in Azkaban now."

"Azkaban," Draco repeated. "What did he do to you to end up in _Azkaban?_ "

Hermione took a deep, faltering breath. "He—he put me in a Full Body-Bind, but never mind that—"

"Never mind that? Granger, do you _know_ why men do that to women? If he wasn't in Azkaban, I'd kill him myself! That filthy, disgusting—"

"He wasn't going to do _that_ ," she scowled. "He just—he thought he was helping me, so he could get you to undo the—well, like I said, he thought you had me under the Imperius Curse."

Draco pulled his hand away from her mane to run his fingers through his own. "I assume it was an Auror that got you out, then, if he's in Azkaban now."

Hermione nodded, deciding to spare him the details.

"And that was how you knew about Rowle and Travers," he concluded.

She nodded again. "Yes."

Draco inhaled and slapped his palms firmly against his knees. "Well, sounds to me like you could use a drink, Granger. I'd offer you one if there weren't a high possibility that we may be dueling with Iadeth Travers any second now."

"Rain check, then?" Hermione asked with a small smile.

Draco smirked. "If we survive, I'll break out the good wine."

* * *

Hours had passed, and Harry Potter had dozed off for the second time. With no sign of any Dark magic, he had made himself comfortable in a rather tall armchair. Unfortunately, his dreams were cut short by someone snapping their fingers in his ear.

"Wake up, Potter!"

Harry blinked several times, only to be met with a glaring Theodore Nott. Apparently, he was not the only one that was tired. Pansy Nott was curled up on the sofa, eyes closed and chest rising and falling. On the floor lay Nelson Melman, who was snoring just as loudly as Harry thought a dragon might.

"Where's Humphries?"

"'Checking the perimeter', according to her," Nott said with a hint of disgust. "Don't know if I believe her, though. She kept asking about our wine cellar."

"Wine cellar?" Harry asked with a frown. "She shouldn't be drinking on the job."

"Yeah, well, I'd tell _her_ that," Nott replied, collapsing into the armchair opposite Harry. "She seemed awfully worried about what you'd say to her after you lot were finished here."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but as though on cue, Phoebe Humphries marched in and announced, "No sign of anyone trying to force their way in. If Travers was coming here, he'd've shown by now." Her mouth was stained a deep burgundy, and Harry decided that Nott had been right. She _was_ paying a visit to the wine cellar.

" _I'll_ make those kinds of calls, Humphries," he said, acidly.

Her mouth snapped shut and she swiveled around. The sound of shoes hitting stairs suggested she had made her way back to the wine cellar.

Harry looked back at Nott. "She's right though. Where else would Travers go? Anyone he might have a reason to visit?"

Nott's response was only a grunt. He was too sharp to fall for Aurors' tricks, and Harry cursed him for it.

"I need to know. I can't have him hurting someone. You understand that, right? You and your wife are interfering with an official investigation—"

Nott got to his feet. "You might want to get your subordinate out of my wine cellar, Potter—unless you want me to press charges for thievery? I still have plenty of friends at the _Prophet_ that might be interested to know an Auror was drinking on the job when you were _supposed_ to be focused on the capture of one Iadeth Travers, who you just so _happened_ to let get away once already. In the same day, no less."

Harry sighed. Theodore Nott was going to tell him nothing, and with his wife asleep, she was of no use either. Then, as he thought of the accusations from the pug-faced portrait, he realized there was someone he could talk to—someone that was _not_ Draco Malfoy.


	45. Sinfully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter has a scene of sexual nature.

With each passing moment, their chances worsened. Iadeth Travers may have had a vendetta against Theodore Nott, but as time went on, Harry Potter grew less and less confident in Nott's assumption that he would be visiting the estate that night. He was quite certain that Nott wasn't involved, yet there was something that the wizard and his wife refused to tell him. What it was, he did not know, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew someone that did.

"Melman!" Harry hissed, shaking the Auror awake. "Melman! Get up!"

Nelson Melman rolled onto his side and let out a resounding snore. Harry had never seen a sober man sleep so comfortably on a rug before, but as he looked at the clock, he understood how it could happen. The short hand was parked just a bit past the large "II".

"Melman!" he repeated, much louder this time. "C'mon, get up!"

"Wuzzit?" the man slurred, squinting. He blinked a few times. "Potter? Wuzzgoinon? Izzee here?"

"No, but I need you up anyway." Harry stood up straight and tucked his wand in his waistband. Mildly aware of Pansy Nott stirring in her sleep, he lowered his voice. "I'm going to see if I can figure out where else he might be going, and if I do, I'm going to try and head him off. He still might come here, though, and Nott's going to need some help if he does."

The urgency of the situation seemed to strike a nerve. "Nott? Will I at least have Humphries around in case things go south?"

Harry decided it was best not to tell him that Phoebe Humphries was far too drunk to stand up on her own, let alone duel. "No, but I sent a Patronus to Vox and ordered him to come here for backup. You're going to have to escort him through the wards."

Melman sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Vox'll do. How long you think before he gets here?"

"Not long. You need to keep things under control here until he shows. Think you can handle that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can handle it." The Auror didn't sound very confident.

"Good. I'm going to go sort a few things and then I'll be on my way." With a quick wave of his wand and a quiet utterance of _"Incendio"_ , Harry lit the fireplace. "Keep a bit of light in here. It'll keep you from dozing off."

Melman nodded from his spot on the floor. "If Travers shows up, I'll send a Patronus."

"Thanks." Harry sighed, fatigued from his long day that did not seem to be ending any time soon. "Alright, I'm going to go collect Humphries so we can go. Keep an eye out for my stag in case we get a good lead, yeah?"

Melman agreed and Harry began the trek to find Phoebe Humphries. He had gone through at least ten rooms, each one grander than the last, when he finally found her, asleep with an open bottle of wine discarded carelessly nearby. The elderly house-elf called Galdron was clicking his tongue, circling her like a vulture over a rotting carcass.

"My, my, we _cannot_ hold our wine, can we?" Kreacher was the only other elf that Harry knew to speak with such disgust when it came to humans. "Breaking into the wine cellar without permission, stealing my Masters' oldest and most expensive Merlot!" He turned to Harry, his tiny, beady eyes glistening in the rays of moonlight. "I _do_ hope you've come to take this one home. I have cleaned _four_ spills of hers tonight. Four!"

"Galdron, don't blame one guest for another's misconduct," Nott said, coolly. "It's unbecoming."

Harry had not even seen the wizard standing in the frame of the open French doors. His black attire was swallowed by night, much like the innocence of his magnificent estate. In the dark, it resembled Malfoy Manor much more than Harry would have liked.

"Did I frighten you, Potter?" Nott asked, his shoes scuffling against the white marble floor. "Not much of an Auror if you didn't expect to see a man in his own home."

"Just didn't notice you there," Harry mumbled. He gestured Humphries. "How long has she been like this?"

"What? Passed out?" Nott crossed his arms, looking down at the inebriated woman. "Long enough, I suppose. One of my elves came to inform me of her state about thirty minutes ago. She was choking on her own vomit, but Remy was kind enough to tilt her head to the side. Fortunately for your friend here, she's a bit more forgiving than some of my other elves." He gestured Galdron, who scowled.

As Harry got a closer look, he saw the purple-colored sick dribbling down her chin and onto her robes. "I see that. Well, erm—I was going to relieve you of the burden, anyway. I think Travers may be headed somewhere else, so I'm going to get this one home and start figuring out just where he might attack."

Unreadable as he so often was, Nott asked, "I assume you've made arrangements for my wife's protection?"

"Melman is staying. Vox is on the way," Harry said, bending down to pick up the wine bottle. "Pansy is still sleeping."

Nott looked deep in thought, but all he said was, "Good."

Galdron snagged the wine bottle out of Harry's hand and waddled away, mumbling something about "conniving, entitled Aurors".

"If you need anything, have Melman or Vox send a Patronus my way, alright?"

"Yeah, sure," Nott muttered. There was something else he wanted, but he wasn't saying it. "Best of luck."

"Thanks." Harry bent down and took Humphries's clammy hand in his own, hoping quite seriously that she would be better after a potion or two. He had only ever seen his brother-in-law get so drunk, and his body was conditioned for such things.

Then, before he could Disapparate with the slumbering witch, Nott hurriedly interrupted him. "Wait! Potter—"

Harry turned. "Yes?"

Nott appeared to be having an internal battle with himself for a short moment. Finally, he quite firmly said, "Follow your gut."

* * *

How Phoebe Humphries ended up in the Auror Office, she did not know. Even more strangely, she was sitting at Nelson Melman's desk, a place she usually avoided as it was covered in careless coffee rings and filthy food stains. Candles were lit, but she was otherwise alone.

Her head was spinning, likely from all the wine she had drunk in the last place she remembered being, the Notts' cellar. Then, the day started to come back to her in pieces. Regina Prattle's report. The owl to Moretti. Potter's return. Granger's supposed innocence. The Nott estate.

Still, she was certain that Hermione Granger had a hand in something heinous. The woman acted far too guilty under questioning to be _truly_ innocent. Perhaps, Lenore Thomas _was_ Draco Malfoy under the influence of Polyjuice Potion. Perhaps, she was the real Lenore Thomas and she was involved with something _else_ terrible that Granger had done. As she pondered the many possibilities, she noticed a piece of parchment written in Eldin Primpernelle's poor scrawl. She seized it and read it to herself.

_Melman—_

_I couldn't find you so I went home. Weasley is all sorted._

_Eldin_

Ronald Weasley's arrest was another damper on her day. If she had not taken him in over the run-in with his brother, his property never would have been riddled with trackers and then, maybe, he would have taken care of the Hermione Granger problem himself. Now, even with Rita Skeeter's meddling, the woman would be a pity case. The public would decide the Minister had no choice but to run into the arms of another man, because Ronald Weasley is unhinged—a violent alcoholic with no regard for her safety.

"How's that Sobering Draught treating you?"

Humphries nearly jumped out of her skin. "Potter! You scared me!"

"Wasn't my intention," he muttered, hoisting himself onto a nearby desk—Durden's, to be exact. "Interesting day, it's been."

"Yes, quite interesting..." Being alone with Potter had never felt so foreboding before. Candlelight danced across his skin, pale from winter and sunken from sleeplessness. "Where's Melman?"

"At the Notts' still." He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I sent Vox over to help."

"Travers never showed, then." She smirked. "Just like I said."

Clearly disliking her tone, Potter gave her a grave look. "Not yet."

"Where are we off to next, then? You have a lead?"

Suddenly, he was very interested in his feet. "Well, I do have a lead, but—erm—your behavior today—we need to—er—we need to address it."

"Oh, come on, Potter! I know for a _fact_ Vox carries a flask around when his wife hasn't made him swear off the bottle," she said, folding her arms. "And Primpernelle, I don't know _what_ kind of potions that one uses, but he's _mental,_ always picking at his face—"

"The wine wasn't the only thing," Potter interjected, sternly. "Your little issue with the Minister—it's been going on for awhile, but I didn't think you'd do what you did today. She warned me, and I stood up for you. Now I see why she was so concerned."

Humphries paled. It was the conversation she had been dreading—the one she hoped he'd forgotten about during all of the panic. "W-well, I received a report from one of Thomas's team members that she hadn't been in for several days. Her secretary didn't have any type of vacation scheduled with her, and the Minister was the last person to meet with her. Naturally, it made sense to bring her in for qu-questioning."

"So you spoke to Thomas's family, then? Her loved ones? Before you brought Hermione in, I mean. You did that, right?"

Humphries gulped. "Well, no, but—"

"And you didn't even ask me before bringing in a Legilimens for the Minister for Magic? Don't you think I would've needed to know about something like that?"

Silence was her only friend. Any answer she gave him would be wrong, and they both knew it.

"And that _wine_ you drank at the Notts—this wasn't a _swig from a flask._ This was passing out drunk while we were waiting for a dangerous Azkaban escapee! I mean, you have to know this wasn't one of your best days, Humphries. I'd be hard-pressed to call it anything less than a fireable offense, if it weren't for your position..."

Tears threatened to fall. Her plan had not only been foiled, but her worst fear was coming true at the same time. The career she loved more than anything was falling apart, and it was all because of Hermione Granger.

"I—um—I need you to take a leave of absence. Unpaid. I'll review your case after I've gotten more sleep and—er—well, we'll see if we can bring you back on, but I can't guarantee anything. If you were anyone else, I'd let you go right here, but I'm going to give it some time. You've done a lot for our department and, well...we'll see what happens."

"But—"

Potter shook his head. "I'm sorry, Phoebe. I'll—I'll walk you down to the fireplaces, if you like."

"N-no," she stammered. Even a few more seconds with him seemed unbearable. "I—I think I'd prefer to go alone."

* * *

Harry never wanted to go to Cornwall again. He didn't think he would be thankful that his best friend was involved with Draco Malfoy, but if she weren't, he would have no excuse to go home, and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be home. The familiar scent of Ginny's favorite potpourri, the crackling of only one fireplace—he could not wait until it welcomed him with open arms.

As he should have expected, the house was quiet. The fireplace was dead, the furniture was undisturbed, and the only sign of life was the lingering scent of an instant dinner that Ginny bought at the Muggle market. Factory-made meatloaf had somehow become one of her go-to meals, which Harry never did quite understand, considering she could use her magic to make a much better homemade version in just a few moments. She always said, "It just tastes better, Harry. I don't know."

It was not the first time he returned home in the dead of night. Auror work led to a lot of late evenings, but rarely did it feel so good to simply feel the plush carpet between his toes after kicking off his loafers. With a sigh of relief, he collapsed onto the sofa and reeled the day's events. How Travers got away still shocked him, especially since he had a similar method of escape when he was just fourteen years old. Nott had been right. He _should_ have seen it coming.

"No going back now," he murmured to himself. The thought that followed made him chuckle. _Unless Nott makes me a Time-Turner._

He assumed that the second story was just as dead as the rest of the house. According to the clock in the sitting room, it was nearly a quarter to three. Still, he decided to check on his wife before he woke up Hermione for his terribly prying questions. He crept up the steps and walked past the guestroom to their master bedroom at the end of the corridor. To his surprise, a light trickled through the gap between the door and the carpet. Frowning, he knocked.

"Hermione, I told you—"

"It's not Hermione. It's me."

Within seconds, the door burst open and Ginny flung her arms around his neck, much like Pansy had done when she saw Theodore Nott. "Oh, Harry! I'm so glad you're home! At first, your stupid bird wouldn't stop with her bloody squawking and then Vurmhart stole my story and then there was the Hermione and Malfoy ordeal this morning and—"

"Slow down, slow down," Harry insisted, holding his hands up in surrender. "You can tell me everything soon, okay? I just wanted to see you before I—er—before I got back to the case."

She backed away from him, skepticism written in the lines of her face. "But I thought you already brought Bulstrode in? That's the rumor that's been going around... Loxwell got an interview with a guard at Azkaban... He's already started a story on it—or at least that's what he said when I called in through the Floo today..."

"Yeah, well, Bulstrode wasn't the only one we found," he said, grimly. "Iadeth Travers has been running with her and he got away. You can't tell anyone that, though, Gin. _Especially_ not anyone at work."

"But—but he's in Azkaban, I thought," she whispered, dropping onto the edge of the bed. Arms crossed, she went on, "He—he's out there, then? You don't think..."

"The kids are safe at Hogwarts. There's no reason to worry, okay? I'm going to get him and I'm going to bring him in."

Ginny sniffled a little. "Harry, _this_ is exactly why I worry. You think you're invincible so you keep dueling these dangerous witches and wizards and I just—I just wish you would push paper like every other department head would. That's all."

"And be miserable? Gin, you know I can't do that... They _need_ me." He sighed and sat down beside her, his hands clasped together. "Besides, Travers is getting pretty old. I think my reflexes are a bit better."

She laughed a little and leaned against him. "You think you'll be done with this case soon, then? If he's so old, maybe he'll drop dead on his own."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, maybe he will." He cleared his throat. "But seriously, I'll be back soon. I'm going to have a little chat with Hermione and then I think I'll be close to getting him back in Azkaban where he belongs."

Ginny stiffened. "What d'you need Hermione for? You shouldn't be talking to her after what she—oh, you probably didn't hear..."

"I did," Harry corrected her, "and I need her help. They had Theodore Nott held hostage and—well, I have reason to believe Malfoy might know something."

Ginny scowled. "I _knew_ he was up to no good! I told her—"

"Gin, listen to me. This isn't about Hermione shagging Malfoy. It isn't about whether we agree with it or not. This is about getting the information I need to make sure Travers goes to Azkaban. Do you understand? I'm really sorry about what happened to Ron, but after what he did today, he's not so innocent either—"

"What he did today?" Ginny drew her brows together. "What are you talking about?"

It was then that Harry realized she probably hadn't heard the news yet. "Well, he—erm—he sort of tried to hold her prisoner. He's in Azkaban. I saw him myself."

 _"What?"_ she shrieked. "He didn't—he didn't _hurt_ her, did he?"

"Well no, but I don't know how it's going to turn out for him, honestly. What he did—it's technically treason because of who she is."

 _"Treason?"_ she repeated, incredulously. "You have to be kidding me! He was just upset! He wasn't trying to do harm to the bloody country or anything! Harry, you have to do something! He didn't even hurt her—you said it yourself!"

After a sharp inhale, he said, "There's nothing I _can_ do, Gin. I really wish things weren't this way, but right now I need to sort out this whole Travers case. I don't want Ron in there any more than you do, but—"

"But what?" she asked, crossing her arms. "But he deserved it? But he committed 'treason'? Don't you _dare_ take their side on this, Harry. You know he was just upset and I mean, can you blame him? She's out there shining Malfoy's knob—"

"Ginny, I'm sorry, I know you're upset but I really have to wake up Hermione and get this sorted out." He stood up. "I'll come say goodbye after I'm done, okay?"

"You might as well say goodbye now then," she said, quietly, her arms crossed.

"Sorry?"

"She's not here. Hasn't been since this morning."

Harry frowned. "What d'you mean? Where is she? Out again?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, she's gone for good. Kicked her out after I saw the picture in the _Prophet_."

"You did _what?_ "

"Well, she cheated on my brother, didn't she! She shouldn't be too hard to find, though. I'd put my bets she's with _him._ " She said the word like it left a dirty taste in her mouth. "Probably at that terrible manor of his."

Harry groaned. What he hoped would be an easy lead had just become much more challenging.

* * *

Darkness brought discomfort. Death Eaters did their business by night, and since Iadeth Travers was wanted by Aurors, Draco Malfoy assumed he would be particularly prone to that rule. He combed his fingers through the sleeping witch's hair, bile rising into his throat and hands going clammy. Once again, she was in danger, and it was his fault.

His fingers hit a snarl in her hair and her eyes flickered open. With a small smile, she stretched and said, "Hey."

"Hey." He pulled his hand from her curls. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay." She sat up. "I needed to be up anyway. Wouldn't want to be sleeping if Travers shows."

Draco pressed his lips together. "Yes, I suppose not."

"Waiting to be attacked and this is still the best part of my day," she noted before planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Funny. Mine too."

"Mm," she hummed, and then, without warning, she crashed her lips into his. Naturally, he reciprocated, but as she bit down, nearly drawing blood, he realized her intentions might have been beyond his expectations.

Draco sighed as she latched onto his neck, well aware that, even after so many years, the woman knew how to drive him to madness. There was trepidation—not on her behalf, but on his. The disturbing events she experienced that day might have robbed her of her clarity, and he certainly did not want to do anything with her that she might regret.

"Hermione—" His breathing hitched as her hand cupped his manhood through the fabric of his trousers.

She knit her brows together and pulled away. "What's wrong?"

He cleared his throat, secretly missing the sensation of her palm. "Well, you're still married to Weasley, first of all. Secondly, I'm not so sure you _actually_ want to do this. You've had quite a day and—"

"So you think I'm incapable of making decisions?" she asked, annoyed. "I'll have you know, I've had to make much harder decisions after much harder days. I chose _you_ , Draco, married or not, and with Ron in Azkaban, I have no idea how long it'll take to sort out the paperwork. I'm not about to wait for him, and sorry to be crass, but _you_ approached _me_ when you knew I was still married to him. This whole vase thing might've been a good excuse, but we both know you had other intentions too. Is _this_ —" She rubbed him through his clothes once more, and he though he tried to swallow it down, he let out a groan. "—not what those intentions were?"

She'd done it. She'd erased any fight he had in him.

"Such a Gryffindor you are," he growled, before covering her mouth with his.

Just as he remembered her doing when they were teenagers, she took the lead, tugging at his trousers until he unlatched the belt and kicked them off. How little she had to do to entice him. How long he had been waiting to do this again.

He helped her with her robes, stealing forceful, bruising kisses as he could. Finally, her soft breasts spilled out before him, and it was then that he realized just how much they had grown since they were teenagers. Motherhood and middle age had left them full and fleshy, not quite like he remembered them being, but it was certainly a welcome surprise.

"It's been awhile," he said, softly, running his hands up her cool middle. She shivered beneath his touch.

"Too long."

He leaned in and lapped at her nipple, smirking against it as it firmed at the press of his tongue. It felt like eons since he had felt her like that, writhing on top of him as she ached for him to enter her. A moan fell from her perfect, pink mouth. Slowly, he reached between her legs, coaxing the apex of her wet womanhood with tender strokes, preparing her for the ecstasy to come.

"Dr-Draco," she gasped, curling her fingers around one of the throw pillows. "Pl-please."

Each moan made him more and more ravenous, and he swirled his tongue around her erect nipple just to hear another. Aware of the tightness in his pants, he realized he wouldn't be able to bear their semi-abstinence much longer. He needed her, just as she needed him.

"Draco, stop being a _tease._ "

Perhaps, he would have toyed with her more if it hadn't been so long, but now, he was just as hungry for her as she was for him. He unbuttoned his shirt and discarded it to the floor—the last piece of fabric separating their warm flesh. She grinned and lightly pushed on his chest before straddling him. Now _she_ was the tease.

"Merlin, Hermione," he croaked as she lowered one hand to her hood. She rubbed herself slowly, sensually, and tossed her head back in pleasure, still smirking at him in between quiet, sinful groans. Her opening rubbed against him, only centimeters from taking him whole. He was so close to being inside of her, but for a long, tortuous moment, all she did was rub herself, creating friction between the two of them that she was too cruel to close.

Then, finally, she pulled herself up and plunged down upon him. Draco let out a forced gasp, holding her hips as she slowly moved up and down. One of her hands clutched hard onto his thigh while the other reached up and squeezed her own breast. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open, taking breathy sighs with each jerk of her pelvis. Only she could change his mind so quickly. Only she could rob him of all resolve with the hot press of her lips.

Then, her movements became more rapid. Her eyes opened and a smile was on her face as she leaned down, only to kiss him shyly, innocently. Astoria never looked him right in the eye like Hermione did. His late wife had been too focused on the unsightly scars staining his pale chest, frowning at them whenever she had the chance. Hermione, however, never cared about those. Nobody else saw him the way she did, and he wondered to himself if Weasley could ever see her the way he did.

Then, she arched her back against him, riding him harder and faster, emitting screams in sync with his throaty breaths. No, Weasley never could have seen her like that. This was for them and them alone.

His fingers bruised her hips as she brought her hand back down to touch herself, working vigorously. He watched each movement, thrusting into her from beneath, perspiration boiling at his brow. He licked his lips as they became jerkier and more awkward, well aware that he would not last much longer. Still, despite their haphazardness, she managed to keep rubbing herself, and while he watched her fingers sweep over her clitoris a few final times, she tightened around him. He couldn't take it anymore. With his final, messy release, he let out the same choking noise he'd made ever since they were teenagers.

Sweaty tendrils of hair clung to her face and neck as she collapsed on top of him, a small, knowing smirk on her face. She kissed him softly and settled into his neck.

"I've waited all too long for that," she admitted.

He laughed a little and planted his lips against her salty forehead. "We ought to get dressed."

"Mmm..." she hummed. "Maybe in a few minutes."

* * *

The Great Hall was still laced with the din of gossip. Rose Granger-Weasley was growing tired of the incessant commentary, but she knew it would never end—not entirely, anyway. Luckily, her own house had decided to stop hurling insults at her during mealtimes, so long as she sat next to her brother. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of one of his hexes.

While the affair kept everyone else busy giggling, Rose was thinking about something that Scorpius Malfoy had told her the day before, and the more she thought about it, the more decided she was. She had to talk to him again.

Rumors would spread like wildfire as soon as she went anywhere near him, but the subject was too important to let go. She stormed to the far end Slytherin table and leaned across the buttered toast and back bacon, earning several whispers and glances, just as she expected. Scorpius and Albus, after all, were still the pariahs of their house, and after the news, Scorpius was likely to be receiving the worst of it.

"What do you want?" Albus hissed. His knuckles had gone white from squeezing his fork.

"Scorpius, what we discussed last night—"

"You'll get him in trouble!" Albus scolded. Furious sparks flew from the end of his wand, which was on the table beside his scraped-clean plate, likely ready to hex his fellow Slytherins in case they got smart with him. "Now go away. Our house already hates us and you're not helping any."

"I don't care!" Rose exclaimed. "Scorpius, you _have_ to tell McGonagall. No one is supposed to be flying in the Forbidden Forest, _especially_ not a grown man."

Scorpius shifted, uncomfortably. His eyes kept darting to his right towards the rest of Slytherin House, most of whom seemed to be staring at the three of them. "And _I'm_ not supposed to be in the Forbidden Forest _at all_. I don't want to get in trouble." A few snorts could be heard from the right. "Now _please_ , go away!"

"You won't! You just have to tell her what you saw," Rose insisted. "Just tell her that you were taking a stroll and you're sorry you did, but you saw a man and—"

Before she could finish her thought, Romelia Goyle scooted towards them and chirped, "Should've known your father wasn't the only blood traitor round here, Malfoy. _My_ father says he's a disgrace to the entire magical world. No surprise since he made _you_."

Shame in his pale features, Scorpius whispered, "I think you should go."

"What? Because of _her?_ " Rose scoffed. She shot Romelia a nasty look. "She has no right talking about fathers, since she doesn't even _know_ hers!"

Romelia growled. It was no secret that there was speculation about her parenthood. After all, her mother married Gregory Goyle while he was in Azkaban and basic mathematics proved that Romelia was somehow conceived sometime before that. Rose heard as much from her mother, and in their third year, she might have told the rest of the student body.

Albus sniggered, but Scorpius did not look as pleased.

"Please," Scorpius begged, glancing at a seething Romelia. "Just go."

Rose could not believe her friends were such cowards. After all that Slytherin House did to them, the two boys _still_ cared what they thought. "Fine! But don't think we aren't talking about this later!"

Romelia smirked. "Oooh, someone's in trouble with his girlfriend! Bit gross, don't you think? Since she's basically like your sister now?"

Rose stormed away, entirely aware of the scowl Scorpius emitted.


	46. Body

Moscow, Russia—nearly a millennium old, lined with breathtaking, domed architecture, and absolutely _frigid_. Irina Petrov was certain that there was nowhere colder than the United Kingdom, but as she shivered against the brick wall of a tiny wand shop, she realized just how wrong she was.

It was strange. According to her father, they left for England when she was nearly eighteen. There was no possible way for her to forget her native land, but as she looked around, she realized that she had no recollection of the place. Even the language they used in their household had slipped away from her. When, she did not know.

Passersby whispered in Russian, quickening their pace as they caught sight of her, much like Londoners did when they saw vagrants in alleyways. Irina frowned and looked down at her outfit. The ends of her robes were stained with cold, grey mud and her light scarf was frozen from the elements. They likely thought she _was_ a vagrant.

Then, a woman walked out of what appeared to be a cauldron shop. Irina was certain she would rush by her just like the rest, but she didn't. Instead, the plump witch pulled her thick sable fur close to her face and trudged through the snow towards her, shouting something in Russian that clearly, Irina could not comprehend.

"I-I don't understand," Irina admitted, holding her hands up in surrender. "I don't—I don't speak Russian!"

The woman stopped a few feet away, the snow creeping well past her shins. She drew her brows together. "English?"

Grateful, Irina nodded. "Yes! English, yes!" It was the first word she understood since she landed in Gorod Palochek—the only Wizarding neighborhood in all of Moscow.

"But your accent," the woman said, curiously, taking a few steps closer to her, "it is Russian."

"Yes, yes it is, but I—I don't seem to know the language anymore." Forlorn, Irina looked down at her snow-covered boots. "I've been living in England for quite some time and I—I guess it's just escaped me over the years."

"Oh, _bednyy dorogoy,_ " the woman gasped, pulling off her sable fur. She wrapped it around Irina and sized her up. "You must be freezing! Do you have place to stay? Warm place?"

Realizing just how silly she was for running to her home country, Irina shook her head. "No," she croaked. "I-I've been out here for hours."

"Hours? You cannot be outside so long! The frost is dangerous!" The woman muttered something in Russian and then gave a firm nod. "You must go to Ministry. We will go now."

"Y-you'd do that?" Irina asked, beaming. The Ministry would certainly know how to help her. After all, her father always said the Russian Ministry was much more reasonable than the one in England. "Oh, thank you, madam!"

The woman smiled. "Please, call me Yula."

"Irina."

"Come," Yula said, jerking her head the other direction. "The Ministry will be this way."

* * *

The Wizarding world still had a chance. As long as Hermione Granger was the Minister for Magic, Lenore Thomas had hope, not only for herself, but for her country and all of the magical beings that dwelled within it. A sigh of relief fell from her lips. Majorca was lovely, but order was infinitely better.

Of course, returning to her post was not all fun and games. The Ministry had always filed far too much paperwork, and though she detested it, her department was no different. She shuffled through all of the memos that had been left on her desk: a report about an extraordinary number of missing brains, an invitation to Betsy Podmore's engagement party, and seven different letters—three asking for rather unimportant meetings and four asking why she did not respond to the previous three.

Bureaucracy was sure to drive her to madness.

Just as she finished answering everyone that she felt was worthy of her time—this happened to only be two of the five memo-senders—she saw the crack of her door grow larger and larger. Then finally, with the door fully ajar, Leandra Quirrell gaped back at her, her pale, heart-shaped face somehow even paler than usual. "Oh, I-I heard the news and I wasn't—I wasn't sure if it was true. So glad to see you're looking tip-top, Madam Thomas."

"Why wouldn't I be _tip-top?_ " Lenore asked. Her secretary had always loathed her and while this may have been disconcerting for many bosses, Lenore simply found it humorous. Toying with Leandra was all too easy, and since she was good at her job, there really was no downside to keeping her around.

"Well, you were gone and with your age and all—well, myself and everyone else on the team thought that you might—"

"That I might be dead?" Lenore finished, bemusedly. "Seers age like fine wine, Leandra. I thought you would know that by now."

Visibly uncomfortable, and perhaps a little disappointed, Leandra forced a smile. "Yes, well, quite glad to have you back."

" _Are you_ , now?"

Leandra refused to meet her eyes. "Erm—yes—um, if you need anything, let me know."

Lenore had never seen someone leave a room so quickly. With a soft chuckle, she flicked her wand and the door slammed shut, rattling the rest of the room.

Making enemies was nothing new for her. Seers had always been on the receiving end of extreme prejudice in the Wizarding world, and though anyone in the Department of Mysteries should be above such bigotry, she knew that her team was no different than anyone else. People always feared things they didn't understand. She suspected Hermione Granger might know something about that.

Love was one of the most misunderstood phenomenons not only in the Muggle world, but among witches and wizards too. How easy it would be to blame her for loving Draco Malfoy. How easy it was to demonize two people for finding love under impossibly bizarre circumstances. Though an Auror could never understand it, anybody in Hermione Granger's situation would have tried to obliviate her. Love made people act in ways that even _they_ didn't think they were capable of.

And when Lenore focused very strongly on Draco Malfoy, she saw determination, desire, and, unexpectedly, his son.

_Scorpius Malfoy walked in a blurry sea of shadows. He was clear as day, which was quite unusual for a vision, but everything else was dark and unfocused. The boy walked ceaselessly, terror in his grey irises and trepidation in his step. There was something he wanted to avoid, but what it was, she could not tell._

_Then, he stopped. With his eyes wide and panic-stricken, he halted in place and fell to the ground, frozen. Someone, or something, had harmed him, but what? Was he dead?_

_Suddenly, he was being dragged. His legs were wrapped with the blurry, invisible entity that only blended with the darkness, and his upper body was still clearly on the ground, quickly and involuntarily slipping through the murky scene. Further and further away he became, until finally, the sea of shadows pulled him down into its unforgiving depths._

What she saw, she did not understand, but one thing was certain. Scorpius Malfoy was in danger— _grave_ danger.

* * *

_CRASH!_

Draco Malfoy jerked awake upon hearing the sound. It was then that he noticed a weight on his chest—one much heavier than his wand or the usual book. Then, as he looked down, the night's events came back to him. With his paramour coiled around him, naked and undisturbed, he realized just how vulnerable they were.

Wordlessly, he carefully pushed her off of him and seized his wand from the coffee table. After casting a Disillusionment Charm on her, he pulled on his clothes and listened for a moment. _Rustling._ Wand raised and heart pumping, he silenced his feet and padded towards the source of the noise. As soon as he stepped into the hall, he heard a third sound, a loud _thud_ this time. It had come from his bedroom.

He was mere steps away. Iadeth Travers could be in that room, ready to curse him with only the worst spells he knew. Hand shaking, Draco reached for the doorknob, but before he could open it, it opened from the other side.

"Malfoy."

 _"Parkinson,"_ Draco sneered, his wand still raised, though he hardly thought of the man as a threat. "Is there a reason you came in through my—" His eyes darted to the flapping curtains. "— _window?_ "

"Well, the front door seemed to be a bit _busy_ ," Perdell Parkinson said, coolly. He wiped some pine needles from his robes. "Spitting juniper—clever way to keep the reporters out of your backyard."

"A necessary addition, as you might have noticed."

"Yes, you _have_ become quite popular, haven't you? When Rita Skeeter gave me this address, I was not aware she'd already given it to every single gossip columnist this side of the English Channel." Parkinson cocked an eyebrow at the hawthorn wand. "Now, if you would get your wand out of my face, I'd like to have a word."

Draco didn't budge. "Nice try, Parkinson. I know what you're here for."

"Your parents told you," Parkinson concluded with a bored sigh. "Very well, then. Where is it?"

"Gone," Draco answered, simply, his wand still trained on the intruder. "As it should be."

"Well, that's unfortunate. My Pansy was quite certain you had it. Are you sure you aren't hiding it for _personal reasons?_ "

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Like you were not hiding your _nauseating_ tryst with that nasty little Mudblood?" Parkinson smirked and took a few steps closer to Draco, his fingers lightly brushing the butt of his wand. "Oh, how far the Malfoys have fallen..."

"I'm warning you, Parkinson! Get out of my house before you regret it!"

"Sadly, Draco, I am not able to do that. It seems my Pansy is in danger and so long as this vase of yours can remedy the situation, I must find it and I must leave with it." Parkinson unsheathed his wand and tapped the end against his opposite palm. He did not seem even the least bit worried about being on the business end of Draco's weapon, and while the elderly wizard might have thought that that made him brave, Draco thought it only made him stupid. "She's worried about that _husband_ of hers, but in all honesty, I am just concerned she may get caught in the crossfire. I swore to protect my darling Pansy ever since she was born, and how strange that the person standing between me and her safety is the very boy I wanted her to marry."

"Things change, Perdell," Draco said, coldly. "You can't sign children up for marriage, you bloody pervert."

"Oh, that much I know, and do not misunderstand me, Draco. My lovely daughter deserves so much more than a filthy failure of a blood traitor. I do not like Theodore Nott, but he has proven much more worthy of her than _you_." Parkinson took a few steps forward and twirled his wand, looking around the hallway as he stepped through the door. "Quite a home you have here. It is... _quaint_."

"Ghosts do not line the walls of my home, Parkinson. I suspect you wouldn't know what that's like."

Each daunting step that Parkinson took only reminded Draco how careful he had to be. Through the nearby archway, Hermione Granger slept soundly, completely unaware of the break-in. "All I want is the vase, Malfoy. If you give it to me—"

"I already told you, I have nothing to give you," Draco snapped, perspiration dripping down his forehead. Whatever he did, he could not give her away. Parkinson _had_ to think he was alone.

Yet another bored sigh fell from the elderly wizard's lips. "Then, I am afraid I'll just have to get it myself. _Expelliarmus!_ "

Draco easily blocked the Disarming Charm and fired back with, _"Impedimenta!"_

Slow and unable, Parkinson tried to disarm him again. Draco blocked it a second time. Draco stalked towards him, but with a smirk, Parkinson spat, "Cruci—"

_"Confringo!"_

The tallest of his many bookcases fell to the floor, trapping Parkinson beneath it. Books went in every direction, some bouncing off the walls and some landing on the other end of the hallway—a sore sight that would have made Granger scream. The bones of

Parkinson's hand crunched under the weight of the bookcase, and if the man's lungs hadn't been crushed, he might have screamed too. There was something curious, though. Curses required conjurers, and Draco knew he did not cast the Blasting Curse at all. Then, he saw something shifting—almost like a chameleon.

A gasp came from the direction of the blur. "I didn't mean to—I thought it would just catch his legs!"

"I had it handled, Granger."

"But you didn't have to handle it alone. Why didn't you wake me?" Hermione asked, summoning her clothes. She pulled them on and reversed the Disillusionment Charm.

"Was trying to be quiet," Draco replied, walking towards the fallen bookcase and the body trapped beneath. He charmed the fallen object back to its original position and winced at the bloody image. "You did quite a number on him."

"He was going to use the Cruciatus Curse. I had to think fast." She approached the scene and got to her knees. "I mean, he'll be fine. We just have to—"

"I-I don't think he will be fine, actually." Draco looked up at her with wide eyes, his fingers on Parkinson's throat. "He's dead."


	47. Gory

The Russian Ministry for Magic had the grandest building in all of Gorod Palochek. Towering over the rest of the small Wizarding neighborhood, the nineteen-story behemoth was a beacon of hope for witches and wizards all over the country. Their community had once been wartorn, with half-bloods and Muggle-borns forced into serfdom while the pure-blooded class was awarded land and lordship, but with the Ministry came democracy. They were the light that united their world.

In the highest tower, which was topped with a traditional onion dome of his chosen colors, Fyodor Sokolov was enjoying a pipeful of tobacco. Upon the walls were curved portraits of past Ministers for Magic, and while they all had their place in history, there were two that he respected above all else: Alena Lebedeva and Bogdan Chernyshevsky.

Lebedeva, a gaunt woman with impossibly high cheekbones, wore a full-skirted dress, and had a tendency to hum to herself while Chernyshevsky, a wide, clean-shaven fellow, spent most of his day barking at her to stop. The two of them could barely stand each other, but Sokolov thought them both to be some of the best Ministers that Russia, and possibly the world, had ever seen. This meant, of course, that he asked for their opinions often.

"It has come to my attention that Vitaly Petrov has been sent to Azkaban Prison," he said in their native tongue. "Whatever he has done must be terrible, but I do not think they are aware of his crimes here in Russia."

Lebedeva fingered her crimson lipstick. "His crimes would long be expired under their laws, or at least as they were when _I_ served. You would be better off letting him answer for whatever heinous crimes he has committed in Britain."

"Hogwash!" Chernyshevsky butted in, jumping down from his extremely large stool. "They ought to know, whether he would be held responsible or not. It will assure they take his case seriously!"

Sokolov blew an impressive smoke ring from the corner of his mouth. "That is the other piece of the puzzle. His daughter has recently returned to Russia. In fact, she is sitting in the Office for International Magical Cooperation as we speak."

"Irina Petrova?" Chernyshevsky asked, incredulously. "You must send her back! She will be the testimony they need!"

"Yes, but the problem is, she does not seem to remember much," Sokolov explained, drumming his fingers against his desktop. He took a long puff and coughed. "According to Ivan, she does not even know Russian. The guards took her to the Immigration Office but once they finally identified her, they determined it was best to send her to speak with Ivan and Sacha."

"Memory Charms against his own daughter!" Lebedeva shouted. "His father was an animal too but I do not think even _he_ would do something so foul!"

"Yes, it is foul indeed." Sokolov took another pensive drag from his pipe. With a final cough, he determined it spent and set it atop his desk. "I plan to begin a process in hopes to restore her memory, but we cannot be certain that it will work. To erase all of her seventeen years in our country must have taken many spells over a period of time, and we cannot be sure he did not use more of them to erase some of her memories of the United Kingdom."

"You plan to restore them yourself?" Chernyshevsky steepled his chubby, red fingers.

"With some assistance from the Control of Rare and Dangerous Potions Department. Sobakin is brewing quite an extraordinary amount of Memory Potion."

"I do hope it works," Lebedeva whispered, clasping her hands quite close to her face. "Petrov needs to be put behind bars."

Chernyshevsky sat back down on his stool and shook his head. "There is only one problem with all of this, my friends." He clapped his hands, furiously. "Yerik, would you stop that infernal snoring!" Another former Minister for Magic awoke from a deep slumber, clutching his chest. As he tried to regain his composure, Chernyshevsky cleared his throat and went on. " _As I was saying,_ there is a problem with all of this."

Sokolov frowned. "And what is this problem?"

" _She_ may belong behind bars too."

"You aren't saying it's an act?" Lebedev inquired.

"It could be," Chernyshevsky replied. "It would not be the first time someone feigned a lost memory to avoid persecution."

"Well, how do we tell without Truth Serum or a Legilimens?" Sokolov asked, packing his pipe with more tobacco.

Chernyshevsky's pudgy face was grave. "That is the conundrum, isn't it? You can't."

* * *

The blood was endless. Hermione Granger was staring at her partner, jaw agape. The words that fell from his lips did not compute—not when she had seen much heavier things fall on much weaker people. Nevertheless, the look of terror in his steel eyes told her that he had never been more serious in his life.

"I-I couldn't've—I didn't—" Words escaped her. There _were_ no words for such a tragedy.

"What you did was perfectly legal." Draco's face was much paler than she was used to, and the sweat running down his nose was not only from dueling. "Defense against an Unforgivable. A completely legal curse that shouldn't even trigger any trackers."

Hermione's feet were glued in place. Shock had a way of paralyzing people when they most needed to act.

"Besides, we can't move the body..." Draco thought out loud. "Not with all the reporters outside. The neighbors can see the backyard so we can't exactly bury him back there, not even if we used a Disillusionment..."

As the finality of her actions slowly set in, a stream of tears fell down her rosy cheeks. Flustered, she backed away from the body, shaking her head with each step, wondering what exactly she was going to do. Draco was correct when he said that she had not broken any laws, but that was far from her greatest concern. She had murdered someone—and she did not even offer the painlessness of the Killing Curse.

"Hermione, _shhh,_ " Draco shushed her, towering over the pulverized corpse. "Now's not the time to do this, okay? We need to figure out our best course of action here."

"Draco, I-I _killed_ him! I-I can't—" She sucked down gulp after gulp of air, but still, she felt like she couldn't breathe. Air was being pressed from her lungs, and the longer she looked at Perdell Parkinson's lifeless body, the fainter she became.

"Hermione! _Please_ , let me _think!_ "

She collapsed against a faraway wall, umber eyes wide and unable to tear away from the morbid scene. There were hundreds of spells she could have chosen. Why did that one seem like her best option?

"Okay, so Parkinson's wife is the biggest busybody I've ever met. She'll be wondering where he is soon," Draco said. He rubbed his temples. "He didn't actually finish that Unforgivable, so I'm not sure what his wand-print would say. Sort've a grey area I've never explored... I suppose we could check..."

Hermione heard his words but they were muffled, almost as though someone in another universe was saying them. She wasn't sure whether to be grateful to him or angry that he wasn't comforting her.

"Pansy will know he was coming here, so we can't exactly pretend we didn't see him, but again, what you did wasn't illegal, so—"

"Malfoy, can you shut up for one bloody second!" she shrieked, covering her ears.

A wracking sob erupted from her throat and Draco's eyes softened. "Hermione, I know this is scary, but now's not the time to be letting your emotions get the best of you. The reality is this: we have a dead body, a porch full of reporters, and nosy neighbors in back. Fortunately, the neighbors are Muggles, so they would never report him coming in through the window, if they even saw it. The reporters, though, they might have seen him sneak in back... _That_ could pose a problem..."

Her ears were ringing, deafening her to everything that he said.

"You know as well as I do that Apparating the dead is far from a simple task. So we are here, we are trapped, and it is quite likely that several people knew of Parkinson's destination. My parents would keep it quiet. Pansy, on the other hand..."

Her chest rose and fell with gasping, heaving breaths. "Draco, I-I don't know what to—"

"I know, that's why I'm thinking for you. Now listen to me, okay? We have two options: fess up or freeze the body until we can get a Portkey. I know Ardus Castle dabbles in illegal Portkeys, and my father would know of others. But I would have to obliviate you... You never did get the hang of Occlumency, no offense..."

"Just _stop! Please!_ I just did something _terrible_ , something—something _heinous_ —and _still_ you act like I'm some sort of bloody perfect person—like I did nothing wrong! Yell at me, hate me, do _something_ , Draco!" she exclaimed, tears running freely down her face. "A man is _dead_ because of _me!_ "

Draco seized her by the shoulders, his grey eyes boring into her hers. "You have to get your wits about you, Granger! What you did wasn't illegal, but you'll be sure to lose your job over this, and there _will_ be questions. Look at me—" She pulled away but he pushed her chin up. "—no, _look at me._ This is not the worst thing we've seen and you did this for our safety. There will be time to air your regrets, but right now, I need you to find that big brain of yours and use some rationale, okay?"

Hermione sniffled a bit and gave him a stiff nod. "I-I need to sit down—to—to think." With that, she quietly went to the living room and curled up on the sofa, breaths still shaky. Suddenly, her thumbnail seemed quite appetizing.

Though she wanted nothing more than his comfort, Draco did not come to her. Instead, he hovered in the hallway, barely visible from her place on the couch, clearly staring at the body in deep thought. He wanted to keep her out of Azkaban, but she thought that was exactly where she belonged. Obliviating Lenore Thomas had been terrible enough, and now she had killed a man in the gruesomest way. How many times would fate forgive her? How long until she finally received the punishment she deserved?

She had no idea how long Draco had been cursing and pacing when she heard the loud knock on the front door. Jolting out of her stupor of self-pity, she turned her attention to the source of the noise. The sound wasn't lost on Draco, either. With his eyes narrow, he stalked into the living room and looked from her to the dining room. The door was two rooms away in the kitchen; there was no way the unwelcome visitor could hear his footsteps.

 _"Muffliato,"_ he muttered, sitting down beside her. "The reporters are still out there. I heard them. It's probably just one of them getting a pair of bollocks and—"

"MALFOY! MALFOY, C'MON! I KNOW HERMIONE'S IN THERE! I JUST NEED TO TALK TO HER!"

Hermione could barely hear past the blood pounding in her ears. She looked at Draco, wide-eyed and afraid, because that was not the voice of a reporter. It was the voice of Harry Potter.

* * *

Never had Irina Petrov been in a place as strange as Fyodor Sokolov's office. Curved portraits covered nearly every inch of the walls, set aside one grand window that was framed with jade curtains. His belly was taut against his large birchwood desk, which was decorated with metallic baubles and small, moving sculptures. She swore she saw one of them take a tiny comb and fix a tangle in his beard.

"You know why you are here." the Minister said. It was not a question.

Irina nodded, slowly. "I've come here for refuge after my father's arrest. They—they told me my name is wrong. That I'm a Petrov- _a_ instead of a Petrov. I guess I don't understand... I have been Irina Petrov for as long as I can remember..."

He brought a large, wooden pipe to his lips and snapped his fingers. Smoke billowed forth until he took a long pull. "Yes. You do not remember much it seems. If you did, you would know that, since you are a woman, Petrova is the only acceptable form of your name."

"I-I don't remember the language. Any of it, really."

"That has been explained to me," Sokolov said, coughing a bit on the pipe tobacco. "I suspect your father has used a Memory Charm on you more than once. To reverse the effects, I will be performing some spells on you after you drink the potions that we have here." He gestured three large apothecary bottles atop his desk, all filled to the brim with a golden substance. "They are safe. The best Potions Master in all of Russia has brewed them."

Nervously, Irina reached out to take one. He beckoned her to continue and she uncorked it, meeting his eyes with her wary own. When she saw no sign of hostility, she decided to do as she was told.

The liquid had a dreadful, acrid taste, but still she finished it and moved onto the next. Tainted from the flavor of the previous bottle, her tongue barely felt the sting of the putrid concoction. By the time she finished the third, she looked at Sokolov and waited. If he could give her back her memories, perhaps her trip to Russia had been more successful than she thought.

"We will begin, if you permit it."

"Yes." Her voice was but a whisper.

After a nod, he made an intricate pattern with his wand and yelled, _"Minnamuna!"_

Irina didn't recognize the spell, nor the words, but something felt different. As she closed her eyes, she saw her father, but he was young— _very_ young. The lines of his face had disappeared, and he scowled down at her as she held some kind of insect out towards him. It glowed and she giggled. As she brought her hand close to her face, she realized just how small it was. She was a child—a child during Russian summer.

"You feel different." Again, it was not a question.

"I-I remember," she whispered, this time in Russian. "I was a child. Here, in Russia! My grandparents lived near the Volga River... We visited—we visited them every summer. I caught glowbeetles."

"Yes," he said, flatly. "Yes, we must continue. It is working."

And again, he cast the strange spell, and a flood of memories came to her. Her mother breathing her final goodbye. Her father packing their bags so they could flee to England. Her first date with Jeremy Preachwell. How had she forgotten so much of her life? How had her mother slipped her mind? How had her beloved Jeremy become nothing more than a slave?

"He obliviated me," she said, quietly. "He—he wiped my memory of everything—in order to—in order to make me do his bidding. How _dare_ he!" Tears threatened to fall, but she was far too angry to cry. "My own father! My own flesh and blood! And what he taught to those children! They could barely duel, let alone cast—what were we _doing?_ "

Sokolov craned his neck. "These crimes—they took place in England?"

"Yes, yes," she said, still trying to come to terms with all that she had learned in mere moments. "All in England, though I imagine he was off doing something terrible when we lived here too. I remember—I remember he wasn't home much. When my mother was dying he was gone. Always gone."

"You must stay calm, dear girl," Sokolov said, holding out the pipe of tobacco for her. She took a long pull. "Yes, that's it. Calm down, now."

There was no way for her to stay calm, but the tobacco did help. The smoke shot out her nostrils and she met his eyes. "You returned my memories for a reason, didn't you?"

He gave her a knowing smile. "You are a clever one, Miss Petrova. Now let me ask you this: how do you feel about returning to England?"

* * *

A green door. Harry Potter might have rolled his eyes at Draco Malfoy's predictability if he wasn't being swarmed by curious journalists. He tried shielding himself from the incessant flashes but even from behind his eyelids, he could see the fleshy red light of media ceasefire.

"Harry! Harry! When Ginny sent me that owl—" A very short, wide-nosed woman fought her way to the front of the crowd. "When she sent me that owl, she didn't say just what you were coming here for. Can you tell me why you're here today?" Harry quickly determined that the woman was Veda Cufflewollop, Ginny's coworker who had graciously sent him Draco Malfoy's newest address.

He had foolishly visited Malfoy Manor as the sun rose, only to find the estate empty, sans a few house-elves and other staff members, obviously hired to maintain the abandoned grounds. By the time he returned home, Ginny was waving a letter triumphantly in his face.

_"He doesn't live there anymore," Ginny said. She pointed at a line in the letter. "29 Billingsworth Lane, Willow Ale Court. Veda Cufflewollop is over there trying to outdo Rita Skeeter."_

_"Why'd she send you this?" he asked, taking the parchment from her hands._

_"Vurmhart. He decided to send an owl mocking me for losing the Chudley Cannons interview and happened to mention Cufflewollop was in Willow Ale Court looking for a story on Hermione and Malfoy," Ginny explained. "I sent Della to find her and she got me an address."_

_"And she's certain this is the right place? I can always head to the office and go down to the archives, though it's a bit harder on the weekend... They have a deaf house-elf running the place on Saturdays..."_

_"It's right," Ginny asserted. "Trust me, Cufflewollop might not look the part but she doesn't make mistakes."_

Based on the number of cameras, Harry had to assume that Ginny had been right. Beaming up at him, Cufflewollop repeated, "Why're you here, Harry? Are the Minister and Malfoy into some kind of legal trouble? Or are you here about Ron Weasley going to Azkaban?"

"Look, Veda is it? Erm—I can't exactly tell you anything. Neither of them are in any trouble—"

"Is that because of your friendship with Granger?" another reporter butted in, a man with bug-like eyes and a hideous orange bowtie. It quite reminded Harry of something that Horace Slughorn might wear. "Protecting her, are you?"

"I'm not protecting anyone!" Harry exclaimed, pushing them away. "Good grief, get away from me, the lot of you! I'll arrest all of you for interfering with my investigation if I have to!"

Cufflewollop and the bug-eyed man backed away, fearfully. With an irate sigh, Harry knocked on the door again. "MALFOY! C'MON LET ME IN!"

Again, there was no answer.

"ALRIGHT THEN! YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES! LET ME IN OR I'M BREAKING IN THERE!"

If it had been anyone else, he might have broke the door down much more quickly, but he did not want to walk in on his best friend and Draco Malfoy doing anything unsavory. The very thought made him gag.

Two minutes passed and they did not answer even after he issued his final warning. With a group of reporters behind him, eager to take photographs, he magically unlocked the door and slipped inside.

"Hermione!" he called, stepping into a small kitchen. While it was nicer than his own kitchen, it still paled in comparison to the grand marble of Malfoy Manor. "Hermione, I know you're in here!"

Suddenly, buzzing filled his ears—a sure sign that somebody had cast a Muffliato Charm. Brow furrowed and wand raised, he crossed the kitchen and found a dining room. Deeming it equally unimpressive, he kept walking.

Then, in a large sitting room, he saw Hermione on the sofa. Malfoy's arm was slung around her shoulders and he was whispering something in her ear that Harry still couldn't make out, due to the Muffliato Charm. Malfoy turned and glared at him. "You break into my house and then point that bloody thing at me for no reason? Don't you have any manners, Potter?"

There was something odd about the scene, but Harry lowered his wand anyway. Suspiciously, he asked, "Hermione, can we talk?" His eyes grazed over Malfoy. "Alone?"

Hermione looked from Malfoy to him. Harry noticed an empty vial in front of her. "About?"

"I'll tell you once we're alone." He nodded at the vial. "What did you take?"

"Calming Draught," she said, and Harry did not detect an ounce of dishonesty in her tone. "The reporters—they make me anxious. Plus, the whole thing with Ron..."

"Yeah well, let's have a chat." He waved her over towards him, and she looked at Malfoy a second time before standing up. Despite the Calming Draught, Harry saw that she was bothered. She wrung her hands and refused to meet his eyes, though that could have been from shame. The woman was, after all, having quite a public affair.

Malfoy did not appear to be leaving, so Harry led her to the kitchen and cast his own Muffliato Charm. She leaned against the counter and casually asked, "What do you want?"

"Well, I'd like to catch up with you, but it seems there might not be time for that." He ran a hand through his thick, black hair. "I think Malfoy might know something about a vase—a Dark artifact—and I think Iadeth Travers might have business with it."

"A vase," Hermione repeated, looking to the floor. "Right, well, Harry, Malfoy is a bit of a collector, you see—"

"I can tell you know something, Hermione. There's no reason to lie," Harry said, a bit irate with her. It was not the first time she stood up for Malfoy when he didn't deserve it, and for a brief second, he wondered if she was more familiar with him than she admitted during their sixth year. "He's not going to be in trouble. I just need to know where it is so we can get Travers back to Azkaban."

She bit her lip. "Harry, he's your friend. Right?"

"More than I ever thought he'd be, sure," Harry agreed. "I wouldn't be happy to arrest him, if that's what you're asking."

Hermione sighed and hugged herself, as though battling with herself. Finally, she said, "We destroyed it—him and me. We got rid of it. It was—it was evil, Harry. We had to."

"And that's the truth?" he asked, urging her to look at him.

She nodded, slowly. "It is."

He scratched the back of his head. "Do you mind if I have a look around? I believe you... I just have to see where Travers might try and sneak his way in. Something tells me he won't use the front door."

Suddenly, she appeared to be in a panic. "Erm—I mean, is that really necessary? Draco and I, we can handle—"

"Hermione... Why don't you want me to look around?"

"No reason," she said with a gulp. "I mean, it's not that I don't want you to. It's just—Draco is a very private person..."

"I'm sure he can handle it," Harry said, turning away from her. He started across the kitchen and called, "Are you coming?"

So he explored the cottage. With Hermione in tow and Draco Malfoy wearing a nasty scowl, he looked in a teenage boy's bedroom, a bathroom, a giant room full of Dark artifacts that he was sure were illegal, and finally, what he could only assume was Malfoy's bedroom.

"What happened here?" Harry asked, frowning. The otherwise perfect wallpaper was torn, and the mark looked fresh.

"Redecorating," Malfoy replied, airily, his arms cuffed behind his back. "The dresser must have caught it when I was moving it across the room. Was a bit drunk when I did it, if I'm behind honest."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Malfoy kept a straight face, but Hermione would not stop staring at the ground.

"And you never fixed the wallpaper?" Harry asked, squatting down to touch the spot with his wand. "Would be a pretty quick charm, wouldn't it?"

"Must have slipped my mind," Malfoy said, acidly. "Are you done yet, Potter?"

Glaring at him, Harry got to his feet. "I suppose so, though I need to see you get paperwork on all those artifacts in that room. If I was any other Auror, you'd be headed in for questioning."

"Yeah, fine," Malfoy muttered, crossing his arms. He tailed Harry out of the room.

As Malfoy rushed him out of the room and down the hall, Harry frowned. Under a large decorative table near the bathroom door, there was a strange sort of sheen—as though something was there. Throwing a quick glare at Malfoy, he went to the table and, despite Hermione's protests, he exclaimed, "Reveal your secrets!"

Then, he keeled over, overwhelmed by the gory sight before him.


	48. Stupefy

"Malfoy, _what did you do?_ "

"Blasting Curse gone wrong," Draco Malfoy said with a shrug, though Harry Potter found the lack of remorse in his tone to be quite unusual. He may have pretended to be a cold, uncaring prat in school, but Harry knew that was far from the truth. "He was halfway through the Cruciatus Curse and I blasted a bookcase at him. I thought I'd catch his leg but he stepped back into it."

Harry could no longer suppress a dry heave. Hand trembling, he pulled his wand and trained it on Malfoy's pointed nose. "D-defensive or not, you—" He gagged again. "You have to come with me. Th-there's a dead man in your home for Merlin's s-sake!"

"Fine." Boredom was in his tone, which Harry also found strange, but he could hardly focus on such a small detail when the reeking corpse before him stank of blood and urine. "I won't fight you."

Then, before Harry could apprehend him, Hermione darted in front of the blond wizard, waterfalls streaming down her face. "No! No, you can't take him, Harry! It was me! _I_ did it! I used the Blasting Curse! He was going to hit Draco with the Cruciatus and I—I used the first thing that came to mind. You can check my wand—"

"Hermione, haven't you gotten yourself into enough trouble this week?" Harry asked, squinting. Whatever she was trying to do, he didn't like it. "I get that you have this—this _thing_ with him, but you can't be taking the blame for things you didn't do... Move out of the way."

"Yeah, Granger. Move out of the way." Malfoy's telling grey eyes were fixed on her, almost as though he were trying to communicate with her, and in that moment, Harry wondered if she was telling the truth. "It's my burden to bear."

"No, it's not!" Hermione shouted, angry tears still falling. She balled a fist and held out her wand. "Take it, Harry. See what my last spell was. It was—it was like Draco said—an—an accident."

Malfoy cursed under his breath as Harry confusedly accepted his friend's wand. The vine wood felt smooth in his hand, much smoother than his own wand, like she polished it often, and he could not help but recall the day she bought it anew.

_"It's not quite like my old one," Hermione said, bittersweetly, "but it's as good as I could expect it to be. Ollivander charged me only a Galleon for it. Said it was only fair, all things considered."_

_"Still nicer than mine," Ron replied, sourly. "Wouldn't be surprised if Shacklebolt kicks me out of the Ministry for it."_

_"He wouldn't do that," Harry insisted._

_Hermione was suddenly quiet and wore a frown on her face as she twisted the wand in between her fingers. For the first time in eight years, they would not be together, and Harry knew she hated it just as much as he did._

_"Erm—great wand, though, Hermione," he said, switching subjects again. "Real...nice-looking."_

Not long after that memory, his best friend would be on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , always in the presence of the man she was now protecting. How didn't he see it before?

Anxiously, he checked the last spell cast. Just as she said, it had been the Blasting Curse.

"Hermione, you know you have to come with me, right?" he said, his voice small. Never did he think he would have to see both of his best friends in Azkaban. "I-I know you were defending someone—" He glanced at Malfoy. "—but I have to question you and you'll have to go to trial. This was—I mean, you _killed_ somebody."

"I know," she said, her voice even smaller than his. "I'll come with you."

"No—you—will—not!" Malfoy argued, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry. "She didn't break any laws, Potter. You can question her right here and then wait for her trial before you should even _think_ about talks of Azkaban. I'll even make you tea."

Harry pitied him. He knew Ginny would have done exactly as Hermione had done if he were in danger, but his job was to follow the law, and whenever someone was killed, defensively or not, they had to be questioned in Azkaban. Had it been anyone other than Hermione, he would have cursed himself for not warding the perimeter.

"It's okay, Draco," Hermione said, Harry's regretful gaze reflecting in her own. "Harry will make sure I'm treated fairly."

Malfoy's jaw visibly stiffened, but as he looked from the Auror to the Minister, he realized there was no winning. A sneer grew on his face. "If anyone in that godforsaken fucking place hurts so much as a hair on her head, you'll wish you were the Boy-That-Was-Never-Bloody-Born."

Harry sighed through his nose. "You know, Malfoy, I actually believe you."

* * *

_Drip, drip, drip._

Hermione winced with each infernal droplet of stagnant water that hit the stone floor. The guards regularly took it upon themselves to remind her that she was staying in what they called the Royalty Wing, a place reserved only for witches and wizards that had been on good behavior for quite a long time. According to them, the ceiling dripped the least and there were far fewer rats. Somehow, she found that hard to believe.

Offering Harry her memory had proven futile. He asked her more questions than he asked her in all his life, and during their time at Hogwarts, he had asked her quite a lot.

_"Do you know why Perdell Parkinson was in Draco Malfoy's home?"_

_"The vase you mentioned. He wanted it. I heard him say so."_

_"And why did you choose a Blasting Curse instead of disarming him?"_

If she ever wanted to choke Harry Potter, it was right then. Harry had cast his fair share of nasty spells, including one he found in a dreadful book she warned him about dozens of times. Draco Malfoy was beautiful—angelic even—scars or not, but still, her stomach sank a little each time she saw the deep holes in his chest, cursed and irremovable, even with the strongest of potions. Harry had been quick to judge Draco, but he himself was just as heinous at times. If Severus Snape had not been nearby, the man she adored would have died at only sixteen. Her heart ached at the very thought.

She had a lot of words for him, but she opted for, "Don't patronize me, Harry. You know sometimes it's not that simple."

_His face softened, because he knew exactly what she meant._

_"Look, Harry, I already gave you my memory. I don't know what else—"_

_"It's protocol, Hermione," he interrupted. "I don't want to be here doing this any more than you do." He held a fist to his mouth. "_ Ahem. Er—just to confirm, Draco Malfoy doesn't have you under the Imperius Curse, does he?"

"Harry!" she exclaimed, infuriated that he would even suggest such a thing after everything Ronald Weasley had put her through just the day before. "You know he doesn't!"

He held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I have to ask!" Biting his lip, he added, "And as far as you know, he hasn't used this curse on anyone else since his postwar trial?"

The press release in Diagon Alley came to mind. Draco had admitted to using the curse on a guard in order to chase her down after she fled the stage. He told her he needed a friend—someone to ask a favor when the time came. How strange that it all came back to that day.

"No," she lied easily, just as she had been doing for as long as she and Draco had rekindled their friendship. "The only illegal activity I know of is ownership of the artifacts you saw yourself—and when I return to my post I intend to help him get them registered, as per your recommendation."

Harry eyed her. "You're sure?"

She swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm sure."

Apparently, she needed to brush up on certain laws, because even with proof that she had acted defensively, she would still have to wait in Azkaban until her trial. Only "extenuating circumstances" could relieve her of the hearing, and Harry had told her, _"I can't just excuse you because you're the Minister for Magic. Everyone'll think it was because we're friends and that would make both of us look bad."_

So, the cell became her temporary home, or at least so she hoped. Visits from Draco kept her sane, and fortunately for her, his visits lasted quite a long while. He would come with a pocketful of Galleons and offer them up to the guards, which of course, only urged them to drive the price whenever they had the chance.

"...your little scam, you slimy little twit." The familiar voice spat, and Hermione heard the jangling of coins. "I expect twice as long this time, and don't think you're safe just because I don't have my wand! I'll strangle you and that dimwit lackey of yours too!"

Eager to see him, Hermione wrapped her fingers around the cold bars of her prison. With the sound of treading feet came a tall figure, along with several mocking voices from others in her wing. None of them ever had visitors.

"Minister for Magic's got 'er lit'le _boyfriend_ 'ere, she does," one of her cell neighbors, a woman named Adretta Shunpike, said. "Ain't even been a week and already she can't get by a day wit'out 'im!"

"Well, Adretta, maybe if you were more pleasant, someone might visit you," Draco said, coolly, parking in front of Hermione's cell. Suddenly, he wore a somber frown, as he so often did since she had been in the terrible place. "Have they let you shower yet?"

Hermione shook her head, entirely aware that her mane was much bushier than usual. The humidity in her cell and lack of access to hair products had left her in quite a state. "They take us to the shower once every two weeks, according to Vikram. He made it known that I won't be getting any 'special privileges' just because of who I am."

"I'll slip him a few extra Galleons to get you one soon," Draco promised, coiling his fingers around the bars. "I've sent the Wizengamot about six letters now, trying to speed up your trial. I even offered them a nice sum of gold, but no luck yet. And Potter's been about as useful as I'd expect."

" _Draco_ ," Hermione groaned, "you can't go meddling with my trial. I'm already in a world of trouble and it'll only put more attention on us both if you keep flexing your financials."

"Well, it's rubbish you're even in here! You probably haven't heard, but Weasley's got himself a little fan club and they reckon they're quite close to getting him out. After what he did to you, he deserves to rot in here." His signature sneer adorned his pale face. "If a bunch of starry-eyed mingers can get _his_ trial moved up, I don't see how they can't make arrangements for the Minister for Magic."

"They got his trial moved?" Hermione asked, confusedly. "He was only just put in here late last week!"

"Yes, I know," Draco said with disgust. "The pompous git apparently made quite an impression on some woman named—erm—Elsie Turtle?—or something like that. Who can remember. Tiny thing with a bad dye job..."

"Elsie Turting?" Hermione inquired, drawing her brows together. "I remember her from school. She was a few years below us... Hufflepuff, I think."

"Well, that would explain it," he drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against the bars of the cell. "She's been all over the papers swearing he's innocent, trying to demonize you and the like. Lots of rambling about how you associate with Dark wizards—she means me, I presume. I didn't take it too seriously until I read the paper this morning and saw he'll go before the Wizengamot next week, likely before you so much as get the chance. They already decided they're throwing out any of your testimony because it 'may not be believable'. Absolute crock, it is."

Hermione could not believe what she was hearing. Even if Ron had no intention of harming her, what he did was still despicable, and she was the only witness other than the two Aurors that came to the scene of the crime. Whatever Elsie Turting did to get Ron in front of the Wizengamot, she must have been quite convincing.

Regaining her composure, she clipped, "The difference between Ron and myself is that what I did was an accident. Ron knew good and well what he was doing."

"Yeah well, I hope the Wizengamot sees him for the prat he is."

"Speaking of trials," Hermione started, lowering her voice, "any news on Travers?"

"None," he replied, calmly, though Hermione heard the stiffness in his tone. "I suspect that's why Potter hasn't been answering my letters."

"And you," she said, cautiously. "You're being careful?"

"Don't you worry about me. I can take care of myself. A really pretty witch taught me how to kill a bloke with a bookcase and a Blasting Curse." He winked at her.

"Draco, that's foul!" Visions of Parkinson still plagued her dreams, but in a way, she did appreciate Draco bringing some humor to the situation. Still, she would never tell him that.

He shrugged. "I've always been foul, but somehow, you still find it in you to sleep with me."

Hermione felt her face go bright red, and Adretta Shunpike's quip of, "Ain't you two got any shame?" did not help.

"Did you bring the book I asked for?" she asked, deciding it was best to change the subject.

He reached in his robes, sinking to the ground. With his back pressed against the cell, he asked, "Start from the beginning?"

She grinned and nodded, well aware that she was not permitted to read the book herself, and Draco might be banned from visiting if he was caught giving it to her. "With the prologue please—I do quite like the bit about waterlilies..."

And so, in the middle of Azkaban, with dozens of annoyed inmates cursing at them, Draco read her the third book in just five days.

* * *

The Great Hall was Scorpius Malfoy's personal hell. It had been weeks since he and Albus Potter were given their own private dormitory to avoid their fellow Slytherins, and still, the rest of his house seized every opportunity they found to tease him. He and his best friend continued sitting at the far end of the Slytherin table, well aware that they would be hard-pressed to ask McGonagall for any more favors. Usually, he and Albus chatted quietly, until something was said or done that pushed him too far. Then, he would sulk over his plate until it was time for class, silently blaming his father for every nasty name and every gross accusation that rolled off their tongues. It was quite a routine.

_"How's your girlfriend? Or should I say your sister?" Romelia Goyle poked one morning, her eyes darting to the Gryffindor table. "I guess either way works, huh?"_

_"Has your dad married the Mudblood Minister yet?" a fifth-year named Michael Durden said during lunch. "Going to have some part-Muggle brothers and sisters, are you?"_

_Sunday dinner had been the worst. A fourth-year girl whose name he did not know dumped a potion on him that made him smell of fermented beans. She served detention for it, but the next day, he heard her telling everyone that it was well worth an evening of scrubbing trophies for Filch._

The insults and the pranks were rarely clever, and he likely could have scared them into stopping since most of them were younger than he was, but Scorpius had always been a bit shy. Besides, Professor McGonagall would have him in detention for the rest of the year if he did anything like Hugo Granger-Weasley did. Pretending he couldn't hear the chants of "blood traitor" or smell fermented beans in his hair was the much easier route to take.

Unfortunately, someone decided to take things a step further than even the fourth-year girl did. The nasty names, the sticking gossip columns to his robes—that was expected. It was when he began drinking his evening pumpkin juice that the worst of it came. He was alone, as Albus was trying to get extra credit from Professor Longbottom after failing his midyear Herbology exam. Never did Scorpius think that pumpkin juice could harm him, especially as the familiar flavor tickled his taste buds, but then, the goblet in his hand was not a goblet at all. Instead, it was a rather muddy toad.

Pumpkin juice, that seemed to be from an actual goblet, dribbled down Romelia Goyle's chin as she snorted with laughter. Beside her, Chester McElway beat his fist on the table, elbowing a third-year beside him that Scorpius didn't recognize.

"Figured your good old dad liked mud in his mouth. Thought you might too," McElway said, still sniggering. "Romelia, you see the look on his face? He doesn't know what hit him!"

"Taste like your stepmum, does it?" Romelia asked, grinning.

Furious, Scorpius stood up from the table, toad still in hand, and stomped towards Romelia. Her eyes widened with terror and she began to protest, but that didn't stop him. Scorpius dropped the toad right in her perfectly straight hair and stormed away, ignoring her screams and the many inventive threats McElway boomed at him.

Professor Widdle tried to cut him off in the hall, but to no avail. Instead, he called after him, "Malfoy, m'boy! Wherever are you going?"

Scorpius waved his wand, opening the carriage doors, and kept walking, despite the cold snow hitting his skin. The darkness swallowed him as he marched all the way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and let the dead trees engulf him.

He had been warned not to go into the forest, not only by Rose Granger-Weasley, but also by every adult he knew. After his experience with Delphini and the man on the broom, he understood why they were concerned, yet he didn't care. He kept walking, ignoring the sound of centaur hooves in the distance. He walked until his feet ached and his ankles were frozen from wading through snowdrifts. Then, as he got ready to cast a quiet warming charm, he saw something strange. In the middle of a small clearing, there was a cauldron bubbling over the fire. It smelled like no potion he had ever smelled before. In fact, it smelled of stew.

The cauldron was far too small to be the doing of giants, not that there _were_ any anymore, and centaurs no longer traversed to this part of the woods. With his heart pounding, he thought of the man on the broom, and he realized he needed to get back to the castle—fast.

He turned on his heel to run, but before he could, there was rustling behind him.

_"Stupefy!"_


	49. Luckily

_Stress_ —the word had become almost meaningless. As Harry Potter hunched over his desk and reviewed the case against Geraldine Bulstrode, he felt a vein in his forehead pop, probably much like the one he always laughed at Uncle Vernon for. However, if Uncle Vernon was in _his_ situation, it would be no laughing matter. He was hardly bothered by neighbors illegally watering their lawn or a stain in the carpet; Harry was working on his biggest case in years, and he had absolutely nothing—not to mention the fact that there was a dangerous Death Eater on the loose.

Everyone that knew Geraldine Bulstrode refused to talk, except Jeremy Preachwell, who seemed more than pleased to reveal everything that he knew. Sadly, his testimony was only enough to charge her with a handful of small crimes. If she spent any time at all in Azkaban, it would not be long—a few years at most—and with all the public scrutiny about the woman, he knew she had to spend a lifetime behind bars. If not, his career was on the line, as well as the safety of hundreds of underage witches and wizards.

Usually, after the number of people that he questioned, he would have simply brought in a Legilimens. When he first started his career as an Auror, her alleged crimes would have been enough to justify the use of Veritaserum, but after years of legislation, the already strict limitations on the potion had only gotten stricter. He would be allowed to use it during her trial, but without permission from the Wizengamot and several other departments, he would not be able to use it before. This left him with one option: a Legilimens. To his dismay, that was no longer an option either.

_"Look, I'm sick of Humphries pulling me into the office whenever she's on one of her nasty little missions," Gianna Moretti had said, her legs lazily folded and her hands laced around one knee. "I'm a Ministry-certified Legilimens—one of only two in the country—and as you know, Wiltshire doesn't practice anymore. I need more money, Potter. I'm stretched too thin for this nonsense."_

_"I've put her on an indefinite leave of absence," Harry said, hoping that would be enough to satisfy the Legilimens. "Your time is too valuable to entertain her wild accusations and I made sure she understood that, just in case we do bring her back."_

_"Leave of absence? She deserves to be fired for what she did! Making me pry into the Minister for Magic's business..." She cracked her knuckles. "It's not a good look for me, Potter—investigating innocent people all because someone went on vacation. She didn't even talk to the woman's family! Piss-poor Auror work, if you ask me. She shouldn't even be allowed to work patrol!"_

_The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol was only meant to be sent in for the lowliest of crimes, and when Harry thought about it, Phoebe Humphries might actually quite like it. Instead of being harassed for taking in low-level criminals, she would be praised by her team. She would even have a quota to meet._

_"Maybe not," Harry conceded, though, in the back of his mind, he was highly considering the facetiously suggested demotion. "Regardless, it's been taken care of. You can get back to your important work and I'll pay you double for the two hours she wasted. Is that fair?"_

_"Double! Do you have any idea how much I could make as a private contractor? I'm being grossly underpaid for all the dragon shit I have to put up with from this department and you know it. I want a raise, Potter. A_ real _raise."_

_Harry rubbed his temples. "Moretti, as much as I would love to give you a raise, I just can't right now. The department is already over budget this year—"_

_"So fire Humphries! Problem solved!"_

_"Well, her leave of absence is already unpaid, and still we're going to come out over budget by about thirty-six hundred Galleons... I wish I could increase your salary, I really do, but I can't. Not this year, anyway. I'll work it into the budget for next—"_

_"I can't afford to wait until next year," Moretti said, getting to her feet. "I'm sorry, Potter, but if you can't make this work, then I have to quit."_

_Harry's jaw dropped. As she said, she was one of only two Ministry-certified Legilimens, and the other was long-retired. There was no way he could stretch his budget any further than it was already stretched, but her value far exceeded that of anyone else on his team, including himself._

_"Okay, fine. I can give you an eighty Galleon raise for the year," he decided. "I'll cut my own salary to make up the difference. Just please,_ please _don't leave."_

_"Eighty Galleons?" Moretti snorted. "I still could make more than triple that as a private contractor. Sorry, Potter, but it just won't do." She crossed the room to the door and stopped, which gave Harry a bit of hope. His stomach sank when all she said was, "If you need any Legilimens work, send me an owl. I'll get a quote out to you."_

He fiddled with his quill. The quote Moretti sent him was quite high—far outside of his budget—but it wasn't the quote that he had a problem with. It was the timeline. Apparently, after she left, he was not the only person that needed her services, so by the time she would be able to prioritize his case, Geraldine Bulstrode's trial would be over.

Without a Legilimens and without the witnesses that he needed, there was a high possibility that the Dark witch would get away with the majority of her crimes. To his dismay, many worried parents that sent him letters of concern were all of a sudden quite uninterested in testifying, and the parents of Valeria Twinn seemed to feel the same.

_Harry knocked on the wide yellow door. He was familiar with the neighborhood, though he did not know many Wizarding families that chose to live in London anymore. There were too many Muggles around, and practicing magic was more of a risk than it was worth._

_He rocked on his heels, impatiently, wondering what exactly was taking so long. After almost five minutes had passed, the door swung open to reveal a sad-looking witch adorned in blue jeans and a faded pink Hawaiian shirt. Her eyes were heavily lidded, almost like she was under the influence of a rather strong potion that Harry couldn't place, and her mouth was curved downward in a sullen frown. Dark, tiny ringlets framed her face lazily, while the rest of her tight curls were wrapped in an old, dirty kerchief with cartoon chickens scattered across it. Harry couldn't help but think that Dobby might have liked the pattern for a pair of socks._

_She put a hand on her hip and pushed her tongue against her inner cheek. "Potter."_

_"Erm—hi," Harry greeted her, awkwardly, a bit put out by her rude welcome. "Sorry, I'm looking for the parents of Valeria Twinn?"_

_"Speaking," she grunted._

_"Oh, well, I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions..." He tried to peek behind her, but she closed the gap between herself and the door. "If I could come in—"_

_"You know, I'd really prefer you didn't," she said. "Whatever you need to ask, you can ask me right here."_

_"Er—okay. Yeah, sure." Harry cleared his throat. "Well, Mrs. Twinn—"_

"Ms. McCord," _she corrected him. "I divorced that bellend ten years ago and I'd rather not talk about him, if I'm being honest."_

 _Harry frowned, as divorce was not exactly common in the magical world. It did, however, happen on occasion, more often in marriages without pure-bloods. Perhaps, it was becoming more normalized as more mixed-blood marriages took place. Hermione_ was _trying to divorce Ron, after all. "Sorry to bring him up again, but this matter is regarding Valeria. I received some rather disturbing news regarding her and your hus—_ ex _-husband. Do you two have shared custody?"_

_Ms. McCord let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, likely to make sure Harry knew he was inconveniencing her. "Seems like this might be more than just a few questions. Suppose you might as well come in, then."_

_She opened the door and waved him inside the small townhouse. As he stepped over the threshold, he came to realize that the hideous yellow door was probably her home's most redeeming factor. The carpet was a gaudy puke green that was riddled with stains and burn marks, and somehow the yellowed, striped wallpaper was worse. It reeked of cat urine and cigarette smoke too. Mrs. Figg's house in Little Whinging actually smelled quite a bit better, which he didn't think was possible._

_The front room seemed to be both a dining room and living room area, as it was small and had a table in one corner and a moth-bitten recliner in the other. Ms. McCord had seated herself at the wooden table, which was placed thoughtfully near the kitchen, a room that was separated only by a half-wall and a green railing that met the ceiling. There were two chairs, both of them covered in frills and lace, but somehow, they didn't seem to match at all. One was a mix of bright orange and white while the other was light blue. Judging by the full ashtray in the middle, Harry assumed her smoking habit was quite serious._

_Trying his best to ignore the foul aroma of ammonia, he sat across from her and steepled his fingers. "Yes, so—your ex-husband. I received a report that he and your daughter were in the company of Geraldine Bulstrode. She's a Dark witch right here in England—apprehended recently. You've probably seen her in the papers."_

_With a snort, the tired-looking woman reached into her breast pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes—a Muggle brand Harry didn't recognize. Though, when he thought about it, he only knew magical brands to sell loose tobacco._

_"Valeria told me. Can't say I was shocked," she replied, putting the filter between her lips. With a snap of her fingers, the end was lit, and Harry realized that she probably mastered that spell quite long ago. "John and Bulstrode go way back. Dated her in school."_

_"Did Valeria tell you why she was there?"_

_Ms. McCord took a long drag and shook her head, "Just something about a job—for summer. I told John no bloody way and it was never mentioned again. Figured either he listened to me for once or they told her to bugger off since she was underage."_

_"What_ kind _of job?" A chubby tuxedo cat wrapped around his leg and he leaned down to pat it._

_She shrugged, smoke billowing from her nostrils. "You know, my ex probably knows more about this than I do. Surprised the Ministry didn't have his address..."_

_Harry decided it was best not to tell her he just found Valeria's listed residence and assumed both of her parents would be there._

_Ms. McCord summoned a small pad of paper—also a Muggle brand—and a ballpoint pen and scribbled something down. "Doesn't surprise me, though. He's always been a sneaky bastard..." She tore off the small sheet of paper and handed it to Harry. Flakes of cigarette ash fell onto his hand and he shook them off as discreetly as possible. "This is his house. If he's not there, he works at the Leaky as a cook. Just ask for John."_

Harry had hoped the lead would give him the testimony he needed. Unfortunately, John Twinn was of no help either.

_After nobody answered the door at the address Ms. McCord gave him, he decided to try the Leaky Cauldron instead. It was busy as usual, with drunks telling tall tales and the waitress cursing at them for discussing her buttocks._

_Harry sat down and waited for the waitress to approach him. Finally, she sauntered over, and with a rotten-toothed grin, she cooed, "And what can I get for you today, Mr. Potter?"_

_"Actually," he started, lowering his voice. "I was looking for John. He's a cook here, right?"_

_She raised a drawn-on eyebrow. "Yes. I mean, he's in back—"_

_"I'd like to talk to him," Harry cut her off. "Immediately."_

_"I guess, I'll um—I guess I'll just go get him, then," she said, confusedly, backing away._

_She wheeled around and walked past the bar. Harry could just barely see her through the serving window, and judging by her face and the raised voices he heard, he assumed his request had caused quite a commotion. After a whole lot of yelling, a hulking man with a large gut and incredibly long sideburns stormed out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the grimy apron around his waist._

_The closer he got to Harry, the larger he seemed. By the time he finally stopped by his table, Harry speculated that the man might have been half-giant, as he was nearly Hagrid's height and probably just as heavy._

_"What d'ye want?"_

_Harry cleared his throat, fully aware of the many pairs of eyes on them. "D'you think—is there someplace we could talk?"_

_The man grunted and jerked his head towards the hallway he came from. Harry stood and followed him through the semidarkness until they stopped in front of a broom cupboard labeled "Employees Only". John opened the door and tried his best to fit inside, which, unfortunately, left Harry with little room. The Auror lit his wand and scooted to the left a bit in order to get the door closed. It really was quite cramped._

_"Out wit' it, then."_

_Harry tried to make himself comfortable next to a mop, but it proved quite difficult. Nevertheless, he briefly explained why he was there, nearly parroting what he had told the man's ex-wife._

_By the time he was finished, John looked perplexed more than anything. "Geraldine Bulstrode? Last I saw 'er was right 'ere 'bout six years ago, I think—maybe seven. She bought a flagon o' butterbeer an' refused to eat any o' the food I made. Thought I'd slip 'er a potion, I s'pose."_

_"Why would she think that?" Harry asked, a little confused by John's response, but confident he could get the truth out of him, eventually._

_"'er an' I 'ad a bit of a fling, y'see—back in school..."_

_Harry nodded, realizing that John was not the type to come right out and confess. "Does she have a reason to think you'd still be interested in her?"_

_The hulking wizard snorted. "Naw. Jus' full o' 'erself. Always 'as been. I'm a married man. 'ave been since 'bout eight years ago." He flashed a silver wedding ring under the wand-light._

_"I thought you were divorced," Harry said with a frown. He shifted in place, trying his best not to bump into either his witness or the mop. "Did you remarry?"_

_"Ye been talkin' to Siobhán, 'ave ye?" John asked, narrowing his beady, black eyes._

_"Briefly," Harry admitted, hoping that that wouldn't mean the interview was over. "She didn't seem all that friendly, if I'm being honest."_

_John chortled. "Yeah, that's Siobhán alright. Me an' 'er divorced a long time ago. She got pregnant wit' Valeria, y'see, an' didn' have much choice but to tie the knot. She always 'ated me... Not sure that woman knows 'ow to like anything maybe 'cept smokin' an' her cats."_

_"You don't think she likes Valeria?"_

_"Well, maybe Valeria she likes," he amended. "Only reason I talk to 'er is 'cause of Valeria, really. The kid an' my new wife don't get on so good, so she mostly stays wit' 'er mum... I get 'er sometimes, though. Mostly holidays..."_

_Harry decided this was the best opportunity to get back to the issue at hand. He gained his trust, and maybe, he could get the information he wanted now. "When you have Valeria, what do the two of you do, then? If she doesn't like your wife?"_

_John sighed and studied the dark ceiling, as though he were deep in thought. "Let's see... We don't do much anymore, really. Teenagers, y'know?"_

_"Oh, I know. I've got two myself. But really think, John. When she's with you, what do the two of you do?"_

_He sighed again, this time even more heavily. "I s'pose we cook together. Wife 'ates cookin', so I do it... Been teachin' Valeria so she might make a good wife, someday. Keep 'er from marryin' some low-life bloke like meself. Erm—other'n that, we watch telly-vision... Wife's a Muggle, so she's got one in the 'ouse. Love that bloody thing. No idea why more magical folk don't 'ave one, nowadays..."_

_Frankly, Harry believed everything that the man was telling him, but he wasn't getting where he wanted. Perhaps, he needed to take a more straightforward approach. "John, I'm going to get to the point here. Someone_ saw _you take your daughter to Geraldine Bulstrode's house in Cornwall. Your daughter_ told _your ex-wife that the two of you were going there. I just want to know what exactly you were doing with a wanted criminal."_

_Suddenly, the air in the cupboard changed. John, who had loosened up much more than Harry thought he would, went red in the face. "I already told ye, Potter. I don' know what kind o' codswallop my ex-wife's been feedin' ye but I ain' seen Bulstrode in years. Now, if ye don't believe that, yer callin' me a liar, an' nobody calls John Twinn a liar and gets away wit' it. Got it?"_

_Harry was used to threats. "Well, my witness had no reason to lie, John, so—"_

_"_ Like I said, _Geraldine an' I 'aven't talked since she stopped in for a drink. I don't know who your_ witness _is, but they need to get their bloody facts straight!"_

_And with that, John stormed out of the broom cupboard, slamming the door behind him._

Harry decided it was time to ask Valeria Twinn herself. Because she was underage, Harry wasn't allowed to question her under recent Ministry law. However, there _was_ a loophole. He could ask Professor McGonagall to do it for him.

Asking McGonagall for favors was not something Harry liked to do, but because of the severity of the situation, he knew she would oblige. Unfortunately, even _that_ path led to a dead end.

_Potter,_

_I hope you are well. I have spoken with Valeria Twinn and it is apparent that she has absolutely no recollection of meeting with Geraldine Bulstrode. It is my belief that she is being honest._

_With that being said, Geraldine is a powerful witch, and I would not be surprised if Valeria and her father have been obliviated. I trust you will look into this possibility._

_I wish you the best of luck with your investigation._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_  
_Headmistress_

_P.S. Horace paid me a little visit near the holidays and he has been so kind to have gifted me with something that I believe may be of more help to you than it will be to me. You may not want to open the package until you are alone, though. It might bring out a bit of jealousy in your coworkers._

So, with that disappointing letter, Harry was left with a skeletal case and no Legilimens. He suddenly had a great appreciation for Muggle detectives that weren't allowed to use lie detectors in court.

The package, however, he had nearly forgotten about. It had gone untouched for two whole days.

Tucked in the bottom drawer of his desk was a small parcel wrapped in an old copy of the _Daily Prophet_. He had stored it there when he first got the letter, as Primpernelle, perhaps the most jealous person he knew, was sitting right across from him when the owl came. Banking on Slughorn was never a great idea, but if McGonagall said he had something good, he believed her.

He tore the paper carefully from the tiny object, as though it might have contained a bomb. To be fair, a good number of Slughorn's gifts to him were explosive, so he was not necessarily wrong to be suspicious. However, once he peeled away the final layer of newspaper, he recognized the potion at once. He had seen it only a few times in his life, the first time being with Slughorn himself.

"Felix," he whispered, holding the tiny vial up to the light. The enchanted windows were cloudier than usual, but there was still enough faux sunlight to see the beautiful, golden sheen of the liquid.

With a new sense of hope, he leaned back in his chair and uncorked the bottle. After downing its contents, he planned to visit Moretti to see if she would come back, or if she could at least prioritize his case. Strangely enough, he fell asleep instead.

He had no idea how much time passed, but it was a light knock on the door of the Auror Office that brought him back to reality. Assuming it was one of his underlings, he quickly straightened his back and called, "Yes! Come in!"

To his surprise, the intruder was not Vox or Melman announcing that Pansy Nott was still lamenting on about her father. It was not Primpernelle or Durden coming to inform him that Malfoy had left his house again. Instead, it was a petite redhead with a nervous smile. Trembling, she stepped inside the otherwise empty office and waved an envelope.

"Madelyn?"

She nodded and held out the envelope, which appeared to have been opened already. "I was checking the Minister's mail and I found this. It seemed important."

"Well, she can't do any Ministry business until she's out..." Harry trailed off, pulling out the letter inside. "I'll get it to her as soon as she's allowed, though. Thank you."

Madelyn furrowed her brow. "This i-isn't for the Minister, s-sir. Well, it's addressed to her, b-but if you'd just read it... I think—I think it might help you."

Frowning, Harry read the letter, even though it was probably a great invasion of Hermione's privacy. Wide-eyed, he looked up at Madelyn and asked, "Is this—is this real? This was sent to her today?"

"I-I think so. She and the Russian M-Minister _are_ somewhat close..."

If it wouldn't have been wildly unprofessional, Harry would have hugged her. Liquid Luck, it seemed, had come through for him again.

* * *

The scent of lavender filled Neville Longbottom's nostrils. After a long evening of nursing his wife, Hannah, out of one of her drunken stupors, he was glad to be back in the greenhouse. Only a select few students had found their seats, some of them hurriedly reading the chapters that he had assigned.

While Neville was hardly the strictest professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had gotten over his fear of being disliked. Professor Sprout, who he greatly looked up to, advised him "not to let them push the old buttons", and though most of his students seemed to like him, he took that advice to heart. He had no problem addressing their shortcomings, and he was not afraid of docking house points when needed. Slytherin House, to his disapproval, had given him the nickname "Professor Tightbottom" for this very reason.

Gryffindor students, as per usual, were all seated not long after the first bell. Neville suspected they liked him more because of his house and war hero status, as he often impressed them by simply flashing his coin from Dumbledore's Army. The Slytherins, however, would wait until the last minute; a handful of them were even likely to saunter in after the second bell. He knew Herbology was not the most fascinating subject for some, but he had a feeling that wasn't why most of Slytherin House had a problem with him.

Fortunately, he did not have much time to reflect on house rivalries, as he needed to prepare for class. To his glee, the squill bulbs he had prepared were perfectly healthy, and he only hoped they would stay that way once his less gifted students got their hands on them. Just as he poked the final, fat bulb, the second bell rang and the pre-class chatter dwindled into silence. A few stragglers, all Slytherins like usual, slunk into the greenhouse and plopped onto their stools.

Deciding it was best not to get off to a bad start, he let them get away with it. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he wheeled around and brightly sang, "Good morning! Beautiful day to do some planting, don't you think?"

Some of his Gryffindor students happily sang back, but the Slytherin side of the glass room offered only bored grumbles and silence. The reaction was expected, though usually, at least two members of Slytherin House would have been more polite. Perhaps, they were having a bad day.

"Today, we're going to be working with squill bulbs. Now, the unique thing about squill is that it's also used in the Muggle world, particularly for cough medicine. We, on the other hand, use it for what?"

A select few hands raised and Neville pointed at a freckled girl with vibrant pink hair. He was seeing more of that lately, though he didn't particularly like it; he could never remember students because their hair color was constantly changing. According to his wife, Madam Primpernelle's began stocking hair dye that changed with the wearer's mood.

"Felix Felicis," she answered.

Neville nodded. "That's right. Now, we aren't making Felix Felicis, of course, but Professor Widdle will be working on a batch, so we want happy, healthy squill for him to use. Now, not to step on Professor Widdle's toes, but if you ask me, Liquid Luck is a pretty impressive use of good herbs!"

A few murmurs suggested the class wasn't as impressed as he hoped they would be.

"Alright, well, there are only so many bulbs, so I'll need you to pair up..." Neville said, somberly. The class started moving around and he nodded. "Yes, that's right. Groups of two, everyone!"

As the bustle continued, a hand slowly went into the air.

"Yes, what is it, Potter?"

Albus Potter drew in a shaky breath, his eyes darting to a chortling girl called Romelia Goyle. "My—my partner isn't here."

Neville frowned. Sure enough, Scorpius Malfoy was not where he was meant to be. While that explained the lackluster morning greeting, it only left him with another mystery. "Does anyone know where Malfoy might be? Any news of him going to the hospital wing?"

"Nobody knows where that prat is," Romelia Goyle spat, crossing her arms. By her side was a smirking blonde girl whose name Neville could never quite remember.

"Last we saw him was in the Great Hall," the blonde girl quipped. "He put a toad in Romelia's hair then stomped off. Likely trying to avoid detention, the git."

"He doesn't even stay in the Slytherin dorms anymore," Romelia added, "or visit the common room for that matter."

"Yeah, he shares a private dorm with me..." Albus trailed off. "He never returned last night. I thought maybe he—I dunno. I thought maybe he was out late at the library or something..."

Neville drew his brows together. "He didn't make curfew?"

Albus looked uncomfortable, clearly not wanting to get his friend in any trouble. "Well, no—"

That was not a good sign. "Okay, erm—well, group of three, then—or work by yourself. It's up to you." Neville addressed the class quickly, realizing that time was of the essence. "Grab your bulbs from the north wall—they're labeled—and then plant them in some of the pots I've lain out beside them. Five to eight centimeters deep—no more, no less! I have to go have a chat with someone. If I find out that any of you have been lollygagging while I was gone, fifteen points from your houses. Understand?"

They all mumbled in agreement and started collecting their bulbs. Anxious, Neville left the greenhouse and hurried to Professor McGonagall's office.

* * *

Harry had been spending far too much time in Azkaban lately. It had been nearly twelve hours since he ingested the serving of Felix Felicis, and while it had been a wonderful twelve hours, he felt the warmth of the liquid starting to leave his veins. He quietly wished to himself that McGonagall had sent him two vials, because if he could use Liquid Luck anywhere, Azkaban was the place.

"I'm here to see Hermione Granger," Harry informed Vikram.

The guard nodded and led him down many winding corridors, all dimly lit as they always were. Apparently, Harry's luck had not quite run out, because he did not hear any screams or feel a single droplet of water in his hair as they crossed the dozens of intersecting hallways—an impressive feat that he had never managed before. Finally, they stopped. Still, he felt no drips of water.

"Royalty Wing."

Frazzled by the name, he gave Vikram a confused glance, but the guard did not offer an explanation. Instead, he continued to lead the way down the long, dark hall. Again, they stopped, and he gestured a nearby cell.

"You'll see you aren't her only visitor," Vikram said, grinning.

Harry was unsurprised to see a platinum blond wizard sitting cross-legged on the floor. There was a book in his lap that he seemed to be reading, though the pained expression on his face suggested that he wasn't enjoying it.

"I've got it from here."

Vikram slunk away, leaving Harry to tread towards the best friend that he had locked up. Of course, he did what he had to do, but he still felt a pang of guilt whenever he thought about it.

The sound of Harry's footsteps must have alerted Malfoy, because he looked up, fury in his notoriously grey eyes.

"What are _you_ doing here, Potter?"

Harry noticed that Hermione was sleeping on the floor, close enough to reach out and touch Malfoy's knee. His eyes trailed towards the book in the wizard's hands, and it occurred to him that Malfoy was not enjoying the story at all—that was because it wasn't a book of his choice. The man he once found so foul was reading to his best friend, comforting her in a way that he might have comforted her if their roles were reversed. Suddenly, he felt like he was interrupting something quite intimate.

"I need to talk to Hermione," Harry said, though he knew this would not sit well with his childhood nemesis.

"About what?" It came out as a growl.

Swallowing his pride was not an easy thing to do, but Harry knew he had to tell him the truth. The last bit of Liquid Luck urged him to do so. "I-I need her help."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, removing Hermione's hand from his leg. She stirred a bit in her sleep, but did not wake.

"You want her to help you? After you tossed her in Azkaban?" he scoffed. "You're even more of a prat than I thought, Potter. Perhaps congratulations are in order for such an impossible accomplishment."

"I'm serious, Malfoy." The Felix Felicis pushed him to tell the man everything. Hopefully, the potion knew what it was doing. "This is important. Bulstrode—the case isn't going well. Nobody is willing to testify and the only people I think would be of help seem to have been obliviated. I lost my only Legilimens and I've been backed into a corner, which isn't good considering Iadeth Travers is still at large and that needs to be my primary focus. Fortunately, I've been given a bit of a break, though. The Russian Minister for Magic had another witness return to Russia—someone that fled the scene. No idea why my only real witness didn't sell her out, but no matter the reason, she's willing to talk. She's Petrov's daughter, so she likely knows quite a lot."

"And how exactly is Hermione involved?" Malfoy asked, a tinge of curiosity in his tone.

"Well, that's the thing. The Minister will only talk to _her_. Apparently, they, er—have some sort of friendship? I dunno the details but he said he'll talk to no one else. I think he wants to negotiate the witness's freedom in exchange for her testimony. If that's the case, I'm willing to give her immunity."

"And what does Hermione get out of this?"

"We'll be putting away one of the most dangerous witches of the modern era—" Harry said, feeling much less warm than he had just a moment before.

"Oh, don't start with that nonsense," Malfoy said, getting to his feet. He scowled and wiped the dust from his robes. "She'd do this for the 'greater good' and what have you, but you know that's not a fair trade-off. If she's going to unravel this whole mess you've made of this case, then she better be getting something in return— _of equal value._ "

"I think that's a conversation I need to have with Hermione," Harry replied, sternly, but not confidently. After all, he was suddenly very cold.

Malfoy glared at him. "Well, Hermione's not awake now, is she?"

"Malfoy—"

"You said she could be freed until her trial if there were extenuating circumstances, yes? I would say this qualifies."

Never in his life did he think he would see Malfoy using his old schemes to negotiate Hermione Granger's freedom. He also never thought it would annoy him.


	50. Dreamlessly

Blackness had become his closest friend and his worst enemy. How long he had been tethered in the same place, he did not know, but if he had learned anything from his father, it was to calculate each and every situation. Carefully, he listened to his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was certainly cold, and the breeze of the outdoors licked his skin and salted his wounds. Perhaps, he was still in the Forbidden Forest, but it felt like he had been dragged so much further than that.

Swollen eyelids had left him unable to see more than a sliver, and even that was too blurry to make out anything other than darkness. Wriggling in his spellbound chains had already proven futile, so instead of trying that again, he saved his energy for his next plan—whatever that was.

There had to be _something_ — _anything_ that might help him escape.

 _"You must_ think _, Scorpius," his father had insisted, broom tucked under his armpit as he tossed a Quaffle up in the air. "It's not about where it_ is. _It's about where it is_ going _. Imagine if this were a_ real _Bludger."_

_Scorpius had heard horror stories of Quidditch players that were hit by Bludgers. He had no desire to become one of them._

_"One, two, three, go!"_

_Scorpius kicked off the ground and shakily ascended into the sky. His father, who was much older and more skilled on a broom, raced around the courtyard, zooming down into the lilac bushes and then back over the roof. There was no way to tell where the Quaffle was going to go—not when his father flew like a maniac._

_Then, just as the Malfoy patriarch rounded a great willow tree, Scorpius saw it. A tiny, fluttering pair of wings was probably ten yards in the distance—a mere flicker of shimmering gold. Hastily, he flew towards it. It dodged his first attempt at catching it, dipping two or three feet downward. He had nearly forgotten about his father and the faux Bludger as he chased after it, anxiously darting up and down and left and right. Then, finally, with one final feint, the small bird-like object was within reaching distance. He seized it, but just as he did, he felt the Quaffle hit him in the right shoulder. His father jerked his head towards the ground and Scorpius followed, his brief glimpse of triumph overshadowed by his father's apparent disappointment._

_"That would have been a dislocated shoulder at best, shattered bones at worst."_

_"But I_ did _catch the Snitch," Scorpius replied, pointedly. "That counts for something, doesn't it?"_

_His father's eyebrows shot upward in shock as Scorpius revealed the minuscule winged ball. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. In nine games of ten, you would've just won the game!"_

_Scorpius was beaming. "Did I do well, then?"_

_"More than well." His father ruffled his hair. "You learned the next lesson! Sometimes, you have to seize an opportunity. It might be risky, but if it pays off, it could still be the right decision. If this were an important game, d'you think a couple of hours in the hospital wing would be worth the win?"_

_Scorpius thought hard. He did not like the idea of broken bones, but as he reeled all of his father's stories of Slytherin victories, he finally grinned and nodded. "I think it would be."_

_"Well, there you have it. A win means_ you _get a special treat. Double dessert for the star Seeker! Go tell your mother!"_

Scorpius weighed out his father's two lessons. Firstly, he needed to determine not only where his captor was, but also where he was going. The only things that Scorpius knew for certain were that he was a man and that he was able to survive in the Forbidden Forest. Unfortunately, neither fact was of much use to him.

_Crunch._

Footsteps were approaching. He knew the wizard had left him alone for a short while, but he did not trust his internal clock to determine that he knew how long it really had been.

_Crunch, crunch, crunch._

The footsteps were drawing closer, and it was then that Scorpius realized exactly where his captor was going. The man was headed towards _him_.

* * *

Rita Skeeter giddily spun in her favorite chair, chatting amicably to her Quick-Quotes Quill. It had been years since so much juicy gossip had come from the Ministry of Magic and her readers were eating it up like Cauldron Cakes. The Minister for Magic refused to end her questionable affair. Ronald Weasley was sent to Azkaban for holding her hostage. Then, _she_ was sent to Azkaban for the death of Perdell Parkinson. Now, Harry Potter was releasing her, which, as far as Rita knew, was a direct violation of laws _she_ signed into legislation. It was a good day to be a reporter.

" _Minister's Love Triangle Has Room for One More—Ex-Boyfriend Harry Potter,_ " she pitched. "No, no, scratch that." The Quick-Quotes Quill scribbled out the headline. " _Out-of-Touch Head of Magical Law Enforcement Releases Criminal Minister from Azkaban—Political Cronyism at its Finest?_ Oh yes, I do like that one."

Being an Animagus had many perks. Hermione Granger had far too much hair to notice when Rita flew into it, which became quite a common occurrence after she discovered Draco Malfoy's place of living. Landing in Draco Malfoy's hair, however, was certain suicide. The man was far too impeccable not to notice her.

"Hmm," she purred, tapping her chin. "Oh, let's try this. 'It seems the Ministry's corruption has no end. In lieu of the Minister for Magic's arrest for murder, one of her many childhood sweethearts has come to her rescue. While Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, and drunken husband, Ronald Weasley, battle for her affections, a new contender has stepped up: Harry Potter.

"'You may remember that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had a short relationship when they were just twelve years old—one that led to an unhealthy rivalry between the would-be war hero and Quidditch star, Viktor Krum. It seems that Harry Potter, despite being married to former Holyhead Harpy, Ginny Potter née Weasley, is not finished fighting for his former girlfriend.

"'Draco Malfoy—'no. ' _Wealthy Dark wizard and master of the Imperius Curse_ , Draco Malfoy, was found sobbing by Hermione Granger's cell when Harry Potter first approached him. Azkaban guards claim that Malfoy has barely left the Minister for Magic's side since her incarceration, which is not surprising since she killed Perdell Parkinson in Malfoy's secret cottage—a dank, hollow place with Gothic antiques and a strange room full of illegal family heirlooms. Harry Potter, who is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, decided that he could take advantage of Malfoy's vulnerability. The Malfoy heir would have done anything to see his lover released, and Harry knew this, so he made a deal with him—all while the Minister for Magic slept soundly in her cell—where some, such as Pansy Nott née Parkinson, think she belongs.'"

The Quick-Quotes Quill stopped, hovering just above the many parchments on Rita's desk.

"Find the quote I took from Pansy Nott. It was actually quite good—won't need much tweaking..."

With a memory as sharp as its owner's, the Quick-Quotes Quill expertly scribbled down what Pansy Nott said.

"Oh! She really _is_ just a _gem_ , don't you think?" Rita gushed. " _'My father was a respected man in the magical community for his entire life. Hermione Granger deserves to rot for what she did and Harry Potter should be relieved of his position for letting her go!'_ Always speaks the truth, that Pansy Nott... Scribble out the first bit about her father being a respected man in the community. It's just not very editorial, is it..."

She leaned back and racked her brain for a long moment, deciding which angle she wanted to take. Potter, in reality, had traded Granger's freedom for a strengthened case against Geraldine Bulstrode. Too many might have agreed with his sentiments, so she needed to put the classic Skeeter spin on it.

"Ah!" A red smirk adorned her lips. "Oh, I _do_ think I have it now... Scrap everything after the second paragraph. I think we can make this better— _much_ better."

Hermione Granger's relationship with Fyodor Sokolov was about to make her look very, very bad—and Harry Potter would be going down with her.

* * *

Willow Ale Court felt cozily familiar after being in Azkaban. The Minister for Magic had been shocked to wake up in Draco Malfoy's bed, covers pulled up to her chin and warm, silk pajamas hugging her slim legs. Not long after that, Draco had come into the room to explain that her best friend, Harry Potter, was waiting to explain everything to her in the dining room. The last time she had seen him, he placed her under arrest.

Once Harry explained all of the details to her, she was left with a quill, ink, parchment, and a letter from her old friend, Fyodor Sokolov. Harry left—not without giving her a strict deadline—and Draco brought her a cup of piping hot tea.

"How long did I sleep?" Hermione finally asked the question she had been desperate to ask since she awoke. She could not believe she managed to stay unconscious during her release from Azkaban, let alone during travel.

"A long time," Draco replied, taking a sip from his cup. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. Suddenly, she realized just how unusually informal it was for him to drink tea before being seated. "Potter had to be here for six hours and I suspect it took us about three just to get back here. It was terribly awkward, actually. Have you never used Dreamless Sleep before?"

The warm, inviting taste of tea reminded Hermione what freedom was like. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. _"Mmm,"_ she hummed. "I used to, after the war. This tea is wonderful, Draco."

"It better be," he chuckled. "It costs more per ounce than basilisk venom."

"Buying lots of basilisk venom, then, are you?" Hermione joked. She took another small drink, savoring every little bit of it. "You know, I do feel a lot better now that you aren't alone here. I don't exactly like the idea of Iadeth Travers coming by and catching you in your sleep."

Draco offered her a tight smile. "Yes, well, I didn't sleep much while you were in Azkaban."

Hermione felt her face flush. "You know, you really shouldn't have taken advantage of Harry like you did. He was just trying to do his job. _I_ passed those laws, after all."

"You also passed a law stating a Ministry official couldn't do Ministry business if they were imprisoned," Draco pointed out. "Either he used the extenuating circumstance clause or you both broke the law. He was watching his own hide—probably was going to lie to the Wizengamot about it too."

"So you were blackmailing him?" Hermione asked, disapprovingly.

Draco shrugged. "I might be a different man than I was twenty years ago, but I'm still a Slytherin, Granger."

"Well, I _don't_ like that you did that. I just want to go on record saying so." She turned her attention to the letter beside her teacup. "I suppose I should be getting to this, then. Fyodor will be happy to hear that we aren't going to press charges against this Irina Petrova woman."

"I suspect Irina Petrova will be happy to hear as much too," Draco said, bemusedly. He took another sip of tea. "I imagine she could be facing some pretty horrendous charges if it wasn't for this little deal she looped Potter into."

"She's a victim. You're no stranger to the terrible things fathers can make sons and daughters do. She deserves amnesty, just as much as you did. Besides, I owe her a bit of a favor, don't I? She _is_ the reason I'm not still in Azkaban."

"I suppose you have a point," Draco conceded.

Hermione dipped the quill in ink and conversationally inquired, "So what's happened since I've been gone? Is Ron out yet?"

"Not that I've read. Speaking of which, I _do_ ask you to refrain from reading anything Skeeter's written. She's been on a sort of stint with Hermione Granger-related news. All of it skewed, of course."

Hermione knit her brows together. "What has she been saying?"

He sighed. "I mean, what do you expect? She's on about you being some kind of—I don't know— _slag?_ Saying you're involved in some kind of Russian conspiracy and Potter was breaking you out because he's in love with you. Anyone with half a brain would know better than to believe it."

 _"Russian conspiracy?"_ Hermione snorted. "That's rich."

"Mm, quite," Draco agreed. "Go on. Get that letter out so we can go get you showered up."

Hermione giggled. "A shower does sound nice, but I don't think you'd want to join me. I couldn't tell you how many rat droppings I found in my hair when I—"

Suddenly, the telltale whoosh of flames interrupted her. Hermione and Draco both drew their wands, preparing for a duel with the intruder. To their relief, the only person that walked into the dining room was Narcissa Malfoy.

"Draco," she breathed. Her wide, fearful eyes darted to Hermione, and then back to her son. "Scorpius has gone missing."


	51. Safety

The Auror Office was bound to be empty. A growl coming from the depths of his stomach encouraged him to find a much-needed meal, and Harry Potter Apparated home in search of sustenance. There would certainly be no food in the Auror Office, sans the Zibble-Zap that Nelson Melman hid in an enchanted compartment, and Harry did not want to be blamed for one of the man's notorious sugar withdrawals.

The sun was up, to his surprise. He knew that they spent many hours in Azkaban and Malfoy's home waiting for Hermione to wake up from her slumber, but it was hard to believe that she slept past sunrise. After years of being an Auror, he had grown used to working bizarre hours, and to him, mid-morning was unexpected but welcome. The time of day simply meant that his wife may be awake to greet him with a kiss. When he opened the door, however, Ginny was nowhere to be found.

"DAMN BIRD!"

The yell was loud, but far away, and it definitely belonged to the woman he married.

The door clicked closed behind Harry and just as it did, Della glided in front of him, temporarily blinding him with a face full of feathers. Feet stomped down the stairs and several more angry curse words filled his ears before he felt the presence of his wife. Blinking away the feathers, he pulled her into a familiar embrace and buried his face in her hair. There was nothing like her warmth after a long shift, and after the week that he had, he needed her more than ever.

Just as he always did, he breathed in, desperate to take in her perfect scent. Usually, she smelled of Elusive Enchantress, a perfume from Madam Primpernelle's that he spent quite a large fortune on each Valentine's Day. Today, however, she sported a very different aroma.

"You smell like—" He sniffed her head again, this time a bit more melodramatically. "What _is_ that?"

"Hello to you too," she groaned, pulling away. " _Someone_ sent a Stinking Butt Stinger to the house and Della got into a scuffle with the owl that brought it. Needless to say, I paid the price for trying to separate the two of them."

Harry scrunched his nose. "Oh. _That's_ what it is."

"Yeah, _that's_ what it is," Ginny echoed, irately. "That bloody bird has been a—"

Before she could finish her thought, Della swooped back through the room and landed on Harry's shoulder. He gave her a small pat on the head, realizing that he was in for a world of trouble if he praised her too much.

Ginny scowled and muttered a quick _"Scourgify"_ before marching into the living room and calling back to him, "So are you back for good tonight or no?"

There was venom in her tone. Harry knew he hadn't been spending as much time at home, but it was difficult. Between Iadeth Travers, the death of Perdell Parkinson, and the Bulstrode case, he was stretched quite thin, so his home life had taken a pregnant pause. Once upon a time, Ginny might have understood. Lately, however, she seemed to believe he needed to leave the big cases to his underlings.

"I might have to take off for a bit later," he admitted. "I—erm—well, I had to let Hermione out today—"

"You mean _yesterday_ ," she said, acidly, crossing her arms. "It's almost ten in the morning."

Harry did not want to argue, especially not when he had been awake all night. "Ginny, I—"

"And to let _her_ out? After what she did to my brother! After what she did to Parkinson! _And while Ron rots in Azkaban!_ I don't know what she said, Harry, but to risk your job over _her?_ James wants to go to Romania! D'you have any idea how much that _costs?_ I don't make enough anymore to keep us afloat if you're fired, Harry, and I know you think that fortune of yours is endless but _some of us_ grew up poor and—"

 _"Will you calm down?_ I didn't just let her out because she talked me into it. I had a break in the Bulstrode case."

Suddenly, Ginny's eyes widened. Mad or not, she knew how much work he had been putting into that investigation. "You did? But what does that have to do with Hermione?"

He collapsed into his favorite armchair and blew air out the side of his mouth. "My witness will only talk to her. When I got to Azkaban, she was asleep and Malfoy was there. We just made a bit of a deal."

"A deal?" she asked, putting her hand on her hip. "You can't be serious. Harry, you can't—"

Interrupted yet again, Ginny followed a familiar, wispy blue otter that was suddenly dancing into their living room. She pointed at it accusingly, her jaw agape, for she knew the otter as well as he did. Harry was just as upset as his wife was, because had very clearly told Hermione that she wouldn't be permitted to use magic until she finished her end of the deal. He reached into his robes and fingered her wand. If she had cast the Patronus, she had done it wandlessly.

"That's hers."

"Sure is," Ginny said, angrily. "I suppose you're going to be leaving again, then?"

Harry sighed. "I'm sorry, Ginny. We can talk about all of this later if you like, but I have to go."

And before she could fish him into another argument, he Apparated to Willow Ale Court.

Instead of knocking, he forced the door open and heavily trod inside. The kitchen was empty, but when he crossed into the dining room, he was met with a sore sight. A sobbing Narcissa Malfoy was sitting across from her son, her usually-impeccable hair disheveled and her robes a mess from dabbing her eyes with them. Malfoy's face was in his hands, and he looked like if he lost even an ounce of control, he might have been sobbing too. Hermione was seated beside him, rubbing small circles on his back. Whatever had happened, it was bad.

"Harry!" Hermione breathed. "Thank God you came—"

"Hermione, what's going on?" he asked, suddenly much less upset with her. "Did—did someone get hurt?"

Narcissa let out a terrible howl and buried her face in her hands. The woman could watch someone be tortured in her own home and barely bat an eye, so Harry had to assume the worst.

"Harry," Hermione hissed, marching towards him. She kept her voice low. "Draco's son—he's missing. McGonagall sent an owl to Narcissa this morning."

Harry swallowed a gasp. "You don't think—"

"Draco sent you a Patronus so you would come," she said, gravely. "As you can imagine, it took a lot for him to even produce one after—well, after the news. We need your help."

"You don't have to lie, Hermione. I'm not mad at you for using magic under the circumstances," Harry muttered, handing her back her wand. "If we're going to go search for him, you'll be needing this."

"She's not lying, Potter," Malfoy said. He had been eavesdropping. "It was mine."

"You don't have to cover for her, Malfoy. Really, she's not in trouble."

"I'm not covering for anyone," he growled, flexing his wrist. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to stop with the chit-chat so we can find my son."

There was no way that the Patronus could belong to Malfoy. If it did, that meant—

"You two share a Patronus?"

Hermione locked eyes with him. "We can talk about that another time. Can you get us into the castle?"

"Hermione, even _I_ can't Apparate in..." he admitted. "A Portkey won't work either."

Malfoy cursed under his breath. "We're stuck with the portrait, then."

Harry furrowed his brow and asked Hermione, "How does he know about—"

 _"Later!_ We have to go!"

* * *

The terror in the castle reminded Hermione of her youth. As she marched through the corridors with Draco, Harry, and Narcissa just in front of her, she thought of the many incredibly real possibilities they were facing. Scorpius Malfoy, if he had met Iadeth Travers, could very well be dead.

"Minerva!" Narcissa shouted, weaving between students who were hurrying to their dorms. "Minerva! WHERE _ARE_ YOU?"

Several confused Gryffindor students glared at the pale woman, likely wondering who she was and why she was being so disruptive. Hermione noticed a few of the students take a second glance at her, Harry, and Draco, so she turned her nose to the floor. Fingers pointed in her direction and she could only assume they thought the worst of her, but it was hardly the time to care about such silly things. A boy was missing. _Draco's_ boy was missing.

Suddenly, a blond bespectacled boy held out an arm, blocking their path. The boy's black robes were highlighted with red and gold, and on the left side he wore a glimmering badge. By the way he puffed out his chest, Hermione assumed he was quite proud of it. " _Excuse me!_ Who are you?"

"Excuse _me_ , but I am Narcissa Malfoy and I am here to search for my grandson," Narcissa growled. Every ounce of aristocracy was stripped from her, leaving only pure, matriarchal vigilance.

The boy looked unimpressed, one hand on his hip and the other flashing his pin. "When strangers are in the hallway when a student is _missing_ , I have to ask questions. It's my duty as a _prefect_."

"How _dare_ you, you little—"

"Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Harry interrupted, pushing to the front. "Good morning, Sean."

A seething Narcissa stood beside him, her arms crossed.

"M-Mr. Potter! I am so very, very sorry—" the boy stammered. "I d-didn't know—"

"Save it, Bridges," Harry cut him off. "Where's McGonagall?"

"W-well, I'd assume she's searching the grounds... Rumor is he might've gone into the Forbidden Forest..."

Hermione stepped forward and saw Harry, Narcissa, and Draco's faces pale. It was not the first time that Scorpius Malfoy had run into an unsavory character in the Forbidden Forest.

"Alright," Harry finally said. "Thanks, Sean. Get your house up to the common room."

The prefect nodded and tailed the group of students. As the boys and girls whispered among themselves, Hermione could have sworn she heard a few of them place blame on her and Draco for the entire situation. Her stomach sank.

"Friend of James's," Harry explained, leading them down the final flight of stairs. "Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

Everyone ignored him, clearly worried about much more important things. Their feet carried them quickly, and within moments, Hermione and Draco were pushing open the carriage doors. Narcissa Malfoy held her robes up to trek across the damp, frigid grounds, exposing her ankles for the first time since Hermione had met her. She was breathing much heavier than the rest of them, likely from crying and old age. Hermione slowed down and helped the woman along the hills until the edge of the forest was in sight.

"Harry! Hermione!"

Neville Longbottom was hurrying towards them, just as out of breath as Narcissa was. Behind him, Minerva McGonagall was speaking with Hagrid, who was making wild gesticulations, earning a rather loud reaction from his boarhound, a young canine that looked much like the dog she remembered him having during her time in school. She recognized many of the professors scoping the edge of the forest nearby—Slughorn, Flitwick, Sprout, Trelawney. The other three, she had never seen before.

"Neville!" Hermione exclaimed. "What's happening?"

"We're getting ready to go into the forest and look for him. This morning—Albus, actually," Neville said, turning to Harry, "he said that Scorpius hadn't come back to their dorm. I went to McGonagall and we put classes on hold so we can all look for him. The rest of the staff is keeping an eye on the castle in case he comes back... We don't expect him to just wander back in since he's been gone since last night, though..."

"He has been missing since last night?" Narcissa shrieked. Tears poured down her ethereal face and Draco wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. For a brief moment, Hermione wondered if the woman had ever cried over Draco during his struggles in school—or if she had cried when Albus and Scorpius got into trouble with a Time-Turner. Perhaps, she hadn't. Perhaps, she was worried she would not get so lucky a third time.

"I-I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy, I-I—"

"It's not your fault, Neville," Harry said, walking with him towards the rest of the professors. He lowered his voice, but Hermione could still hear him as she and Draco led Narcissa towards the edge of the forest. "Do we know when he was last seen?"

"Dinnertime. He put a toad in a classmate's hair—likely after a quarrel, based on the girl's track record—and then he bolted out of the Great Hall."

As they drew closer to the group of professors and the line of shady trees, Narcissa jerked away from her son and Hermione. Her tears had been replaced with fury as she stormed towards Minerva McGonagall, determination in each step.

"You swore my grandson would be safe here!" Narcissa shouted, holding up her robes. "I _warned_ Draco not to put him back in this school but you swore—you _promised_ me, Minerva, that he would not be in danger! You _promised_ you would keep an eye on him!"

McGonagall gave her a somber look—a look that Hermione knew well. The woman pitied Lady Malfoy, and as everyone turned their attention towards the frightened grandmother, Hermione suspected McGonagall wasn't the only one pitying her.

"Narcissa, I am incredibly sorry for what has happened. I cannot imagine how you must be feeling right now, but trust me when I say we will do everything in our power to assure that your grandson has a safe return." She turned to Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, I do assume you won't leave this up to Mr. Potter and myself."

"Of course not. He's my son," Draco said, thickly.

"And he's my grandson!" Narcissa howled, wand in hand as she hiked her robes once more. "I cannot trust the personnel at this school to do their job, so I will go find him myself if I have to!"

McGonagall approached Hermione and shook her head. "Keep her here."

"But—"

"Miss Granger, please." McGonagall's eyes darted to Narcissa. "She's hysterical, and I assume you understand that Mr. Malfoy must join us."

Hermione glanced from Draco to McGonagall. She wanted to help. She wanted to do whatever it took to help him find his son, but as a grieving Narcissa started shouting at Professor Flitwick, she knew that McGonagall was right. Somebody had to calm her down, and nobody that worked for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would be able to do that.

McGonagall addressed everyone, despite Narcissa's alternating wheezes and shrieks. "Keep an eye on the edge of the Forest just in case someone flees. If we throw up red sparks, come only in a group—and do so quietly. Hagrid, make sure that dog of yours doesn't follow us. His infernal barking will do us no good."

Everyone nodded, and McGonagall, Harry, and Draco disappeared into the blackness of the forest.

* * *

The stench of hot, sour breath washed over Scorpius Malfoy's face. The man spoke only rarely; whether it was to conceal his identity or avoid wasting words, Scorpius did not know. He did know, however, that he preferred the silence to the alternative. Whenever the wizard uttered anything, agony was to follow.

Fortunately, some of the swelling in his face had diminished, along with the constant pain. His captor had, however, blinded him by wrapping a piece of black fabric around his eyes. Scents, sounds, and feelings were all that he had left, and all he could do was hope that those were enough.

The clattering of pots and pans told Scorpius that the man was preparing a meal. Which meal, he could not say. Time had slowed since he was captured in the Forbidden Forest, and hours easily could have been minutes. His stomach rolled. No matter how much time had passed, it had been long enough to leave him hungry.

Scraping silverware pierced his ears shortly thereafter, and he began to wonder if the wizard would feed him. Sadly, one of the many spells that had been cast upon him deterred him from asking. Any time that he tried to speak, he choked on his own words.

The hiss of a fire being doused made Scorpius's stomach drop. Apparently, he would not be eating.

Silence followed. It seemed like a long silence, but Scorpius could not be sure. He had taken his father's advice and always listened to where the man was and in which direction he was headed. Strangely enough, the man had not moved in quite a while. He could not even hear the soft sound of someone shifting in place. It was almost like he had disappeared entirely, yet that also seemed impossible. He never heard the light _crack_ that he associated with Apparition.

_"Crucio."_

No matter how many times the spell was cast upon him, the excruciating pain never got any better. Hot knives pressed deep into his skin, twisting, burning, jabbing. Perhaps, if he could see, he could find something to focus on—anything to numb the agony. The fabric blinding him remained in place, and all that he could do was wriggle. He tried to scream, not because he thought it would help, but because the misery was far too great. Instead, he choked. He kicked and pulled and writhed, silently crying, hoping that it would cease—but it didn't.

Over and over again, the man performed the spell. Scorpius could feel the blood trickling down his nose and filling ears. Then, a miracle happened.

_"Expelliarmus!"_

The voice belonged to a man—not the man that had captured him, but someone that he knew. Partially deaf from the blood in his ears, he was not able to pinpoint exactly who it was. All he knew was that he was grateful. Someone had come to his rescue.

The next voice made him shiver. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the great _Harry Potter_. Oh, and the boy's father! It seems we'll be having a bit of a Malfoy family reunion, won't we?"

Suddenly, the pounding in his chest had slowed. His father was there?

"Iadeth," a stern, feminine voice said. The cracking of sticks suggested she was drawing nearer, almost like she wasn't afraid at all. "You have _no_ _business_ being so close to my school."

Scorpius knew that voice. It belonged to the most powerful witch that he knew—the headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"You think I'm afraid of you, Minerva?" his captor spat. "You'd be dafter than I thought and I didn't think that was bloody possible. _Stupefy!_ "

 _"Impedimenta!_ "

Judging by the man's harsh chuckle, he had blocked it, just as McGonagall seemed to dodge his Stunning Spell. Sticks, leaves, and snow crunched beneath the duelers' feet and Scorpius never wished for his sight more than he did in that moment.

Potter took another shot with a Stunning Spell, and Scorpius was beginning to wonder where his father had gone. Perhaps, he was calculating. Gryffindors had a way of diving in headfirst when they should have walked instead.

_"Crucio!"_

That one hit a male—whether it was his father or Potter, he couldn't tell. All he heard was primal, bloodcurdling screams.

_"Incendio!"_

That was definitely his father, which meant Potter was the one that was hit by the Cruciatus Curse. The smoky stench of burning pine needles filled the air, and Scorpius started to wonder just what it was that his father was planning. Whatever it was, he hoped it would get them all out of there alive. If it did, he would never run away again. That much was certain.

 _"I-Incarcerous!"_ In all his years, he had never heard Minvera McGonagall stutter, and as she faltered, so did his confidence.

"Goin' to have to do better than that, Minerva. _Crucio!_ "

There was another scream—female this time, and just as terrible as the first. He heard something fall to the ground, something heavy that he could only assume was McGonagall herself.

"Let my son go, Travers," his father grunted. "Let him go now and I _might_ let you live."

Travers let out a dark, sickening chuckle. "No way, Malfoy. _Cru_ —"

_"Bombarda!"_

Suddenly, the tables had turned. It was Travers that was screaming, and a slew of counter-curses spilled from his father's lips. Scorpius felt his magical chains fall as Potter and McGonagall quickly regained their composure and chanted incantations in Travers's direction. Finally able to pull the fabric from his face, he saw just what had happened.

A grubby wizard was trapped beneath a burning fir tree and Potter and McGonagall seemed to be getting ready to take him into custody. Scorpius had heard many stories of Iadeth Travers, but never did he think he would meet him face-to-face, let alone live to tell the tale.

"Scorpius," his father breathed, rushing towards him. It had been a long time since his father's embrace felt so warm. "Merlin's beard, what were you _thinking?_ "

"I wasn't," Scorpius admitted, hugging him back. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really, really sorry."

"Bloody right you are," his father agreed, pulling away. He sized him up and clapped him on the shoulder. "No more running into this dreadful forest, yeah? One more episode like this and I think you'll put your grandmother in St. Mungo's."

Scorpius nodded, doing his best to ignore the blood crusting in his ears. "Maybe I should've been sorted into Gryffindor."

His father laughed. "Maybe so, son. Maybe so."

* * *

Hermione stood at the edge of the forest watching her paramour and his mother fawn over the boy that was nearly identical to them both. Minerva McGonagall hiked towards her rather than joining the circle of professors, all who seemed to be discussing what had taken place. A small smile was fixed on her lips.

"Potter is getting that man back in Azkaban where he belongs," she said, taking a spot beside Hermione. The winter sun beat down on them, which was rather unusual, leaving the headmistress to use her hand as a makeshift visor. "I must say I blame myself for this. Lenore Thomas warned me that something may happen to young Mr. Malfoy, but it seems I still have my prejudices against Seers."

"She is one of the legitimate few, I think," Hermione determined, concealing her subtle disappointment. For a brief second, she wondered if that was how Harry felt when Dumbledore betrayed him—faint surprise, but mostly hurt. "He is safe now, though you may not want to tell Narcissa Malfoy what you just told me."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. McGonagall had been one of Hermione's greatest role models growing up, and her sheer carelessness had nearly left a boy dead in the Forbidden Forest. She wasn't sure how to feel.

"It's been a long time since I've felt the sting of the Cruciatus Curse."

Hermione had expected her to break the silence, but she did not expect her to break it with that.

"It's unpleasant," Hermione said, simply. "I remember it well."

McGonagall nodded. "I'm certain you do, Miss Granger."

"Still technically 'Mrs.', actually," Hermione corrected her, nonchalantly picking at her fingernails. Suddenly, they seemed quite dirty. "Hopefully not for much longer."

"Yes, well, I can see that Mr. Malfoy is quite taken with you," McGonagall noted, crossing her arms. In the distance, Draco was smiling back at them, waving as his mother fussed over Scorpius. "Some things just don't change, do they?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "It seems not."

McGonagall sighed through her nose. "You know, Miss Granger, a lot of the professors at this school are getting quite old—myself included. Professor Longbottom will be taking over Professor Sprout's few remaining responsibilities at the start of next year and as you can imagine, she isn't the only one that would like to retire. Septima has voiced that she would like to leave Hogwarts as well."

"Is that so?"

McGonagall nodded, eyeing her. "It is. Based on your proclivity for Arithmancy, you'd be a wonderful candidate if you weren't Minister for Magic. The Ministry is lucky to have you, no matter the opinions of Rita Skeeter and her cronies at the _Daily Prophet._ "

"Are you offering me a job, Professor?"

"I would be mad not to, but selfish to expect it," McGonagall replied. "I suspect Mr. Malfoy would be a good candidate to take over for Professor Widdle—if he still has any interest in Potions, anyway. As you know, Mitchell's position as the Potions professor was only temporary and he has given me notice that he will be moving to Poland to take a job at the end of July. According to Horace, Mr. Malfoy was quite a good mentor to you back in your final year of school. I do think he'd be a good replacement."

Hermione was taken aback. She pondered it for a long moment and finally said, "Do you mind if I think about it?"

McGonagall gave her an honest smile. "I'd like that very much, Miss Granger."


	52. Immunity

Paperwork was a welcome old friend. Hermione Granger signed the final page of hundreds—all listing one of the many Malfoy and Black heirlooms. With the help of Harry, they were able to register all of the artifacts with the proper departments, though the Department of Magical Artifacts had more questions than she wished to answer.

With a sigh of relief, she stacked the parchments and sent them to the archives. Before they even had a chance to fly out of the room, there was a knock on her office door.

"Come in! Watch out for the—" The door swung open and the many parchments smacked Harry Potter right in the face. Hermione grimaced. "—paperwork."

"Just wanted to thank you for your help on the Bulstrode case," he said, distractedly. The parchments zoomed past his head and he closed the door behind him. "I'd like to see the Wizengamot find her innocent after this. Oh, and after what Irina had on that Russian—well, he's her father, I guess—I wouldn't be surprised if he catches more charges than Bulstrode does."

"And Millicent will walk free?" Hermione asked, thinking back to the round girl she knew from school.

"She was under the Imperius Curse. Of course she'll walk free."

"And what of Travers?"

"Technically, he's an Azkaban escapee and he already had a life sentence," he explained. "They're going to be relocating him and he'll have no visitation privileges."

"Brilliant," Hermione said, resting her chin in her palm. "I just finished getting Draco's heirlooms sorted. I really can't thank you enough for persuading Jemila to approve the registration. She was really giving me the runaround."

"She's a bit mental," Harry chuckled, sitting on the edge of Hermione's desk. "Can't blame her though. It's a newer department and with the way budgeting has been going, she knows her team will be the first to see cuts. Has to prove she's doing her job."

Hermione nodded, slowly. Her mind was far removed from paperwork and the many upcoming trials, as she had something to tell Harry that she had been thinking about since Travers was apprehended. How he would take it, she couldn't say.

"I'm resigning, you know."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me, what?"

"I think—" She sighed. "I don't know, I'm just tired of the spotlight and politics and all the rubbish that comes along with it."

"But I mean, you could be perfect and that would still be a problem," Harry replied, confusedly. "Hermione, I've been in the spotlight since I was a _baby_. It doesn't mean I should just resign."

"Well, it's not just that. All the paperwork and the meetings are driving me absolutely _mad_ —and I want to write another book. I most certainly don't have the time for that with work and press releases and everything else that comes along with it... Plus, the kids..."

"Alright, alright, I get it." He gave her a quizzical look. "What's next for you, then?"

"I have a few irons in the fire. I definitely want to start my next book, though. I—erm—well, I would love for you to take my post, but I don't think—"

"Absolutely not! Though, Ginny would love it. She's wanted me to start pushing quills for years now."

Hermione smiled. Picturing Harry behind a desk all day did not come easily, and when she did, he looked miserable. "The Harry I know doesn't push quills."

"I do, just as little as I can get away with." He laughed and pressed his palms into his thighs. "So, if not me, who else were you thinking? Rita Skeeter?"

"Oh, be _serious!_ " she snorted, pushing him a bit—just enough for him to almost fall off the desk. "Erm—but yes, I did have someone in mind. I know it's a bit strange, but I think Lenore Thomas would be the best fit."

"Lenore Thomas? She's a bit... _batty,_ isn't she?"

"No battier than the rest of us," Hermione said. "Plus, her policies align with mine, believe it or not."

"So I shouldn't expect to see pillowcased house-elves all over the place once you step down?"

"She couldn't re-enslave them even if she wanted to, Harry. It's written in the bylaws," Hermione replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Aside from that, d'you think you'll be okay during Bulstrode's trial? I could stick around until that's sorted, if you need me to."

"Oh, no, it's pretty cut and dry. She'll be going to Azkaban, no doubt about it." Harry cracked his knuckles. "Plus, with Humphries gone, we've been able to keep the team focused on the case rather than all her little errands."

"Good," Hermione said. Hearing that Humphries had been fired made her much happier than she was willing to admit, and she suspected it made Harry happier than he was letting on as well; over the weeks, he seemed brighter, like a gargantuan weight had been lifted from his narrow shoulders. "It's been better without her around, then?"

"A lot better, really. I hate admitting it, but you were right."

"Someday you'll learn that that's usually the case." She looked down at her watch. "It's getting a bit late, actually. Draco's probably worried."

"Right," Harry said, jumping down from her desk. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly. "Wait, that reminds me. We never really discussed the whole... _Patronus_ thing."

Hermione bit her lip. "Yes, right. Er—what would you like to know about it?"

"Well, assuming you two were telling the truth, you and Draco—erm—you share a Patronus." Harry quickly looked down at his lap. "I mean—I've heard of that happening before but not—it's—that's not very common, is it?"

She felt a blush creep up into her cheeks. "No, it's quite rare, actually. There's barely any evidence of it in any of the books that I found on Patronus magic... I did a fair bit of research once the war was over—after you told me about Snape..."

Harry nodded, stiffly. "You two—this whole thing isn't new, then, is it?"

"No. It's not."

"You love him?" he asked after a sharp inhale.

Hermione had never said the words. Not even during their time at Hogwarts did they dare explore the possibility of _love_. Alas, when Harry said it aloud, she realized that she did. After all the time she spent fighting for him, she loved Draco. Perhaps, she always had.

She met his eyes and gulped. "Yes. Yes, I love him."

"I see."

"I never asked for this, Harry," Hermione said. "I tried to fight it, I just—sometimes you just—"

"Can't," Harry finished for her. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Hermione gave him a questioning look. The last thing she expected was for him to understand. Reformed or not, it was still Draco Malfoy that they were talking about. "I'm sorry?"

He sighed. "Do you think I _wanted_ to fall in love with my best friend's little sister? _Ron's_ little sister? He's not exactly the type to take that sort of thing well. I thought he was going to bloody kill me."

"But he knew you're a good person."

"It's Ron. It didn't matter if I was good person or not if I was snogging his sister."

Hermione chuckled, remembering all of the snarky comments Ron made about Ginny's relationships during their youth. "Yeah, I suppose that's true."

"My point is, I might not understand what you see in him, but I guess don't have to." Harry ran his hand through his hair, almost like _he_ didn't even believe what he was saying. "Maybe when we were in school I had the right to say something, but we're over forty, Hermione. I'm not about to throw away over thirty years of friendship over bloody Malfoy."

Suddenly, her eyes were very watery. In a world where no one could accept her and Draco, all that mattered was that Harry _did_. He had always been a supportive friend, even when she maybe didn't deserve it.

"Besides," he continued, "he's a good bloke nowadays, and it seems he treats you a lot better than Ron ever did. Who'd've thunk?"

Hermione wiped away her tears and smiled. "I appreciate that more than you know, Harry."

"Well, you said it was late." He looked at his watch. "Seems that you're right. I better get home to Ginny."

"Yes, I ought to be going too." She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "Almost dinnertime and all that."

Harry headed towards the door, but stopped and wheeled around to face her again. "And Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Ginny'll come around, okay?" he promised. "Just give her time."

Hermione nodded. She only hoped he was right.

* * *

The aroma of Beef Wellington filled the cottage. Draco Malfoy was proud of the meal he had made, especially since he found the recipe in one of Hermione's Muggle cookbooks, which was nearly impossible to follow. Thanks to his clever wand-work, he found a magical way to prepare it, all the while wondering just how often Muggles went hungry due to the complexities of cooking.

A soft _crack_ alerted him that Hermione was finally home from work. They had fallen into a routine—one that he actually liked very much. He would tend to his studies and his artifacts while she was at Ministry headquarters, and by the time she came home, they would share whatever meal he had made for them that evening. Even though he pretended to hate it, he actually quite enjoyed cooking. It reminded him of brewing a potion, which was something he had once loved but did not often find time to do anymore.

"Evening, dear," she said, hanging up her purse. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. "How was your day?"

"Superb, actually. I finally broke the curse on that dreadful lamp of my grandfather's," he announced, proudly. "Took forever to realize the enchantments were in the oil rather than the lamp itself. Once I drained it, it was good as new."

"Oh, that's great!" Hermione exclaimed. Draco knew she hated that lamp. "Maybe it'll stop calling me a Mudblood every time I walk by it now."

"I'd assume as much." Draco gestured the dining room table. "Beef Wellington's done. It's just resting."

 _"Resting?"_ she laughed, sitting down. "You're like one of those celebrity chefs on the telly. I would never let a meal _rest._ "

"Well, you will today!" he fussed, snapping his fingers. A silver teapot poured them each a cup. "It was hard enough translating the damn recipe into magical terms. How do Muggles even _eat_ with how bloody hard they make it?"

" _Most_ Muggles don't make _Beef Wellington,_ " Hermione pointed out. "It smells lovely, though. Can't wait to tuck in."

"Good," he said, taking a sip of tea. "By the way, you mentioned that you were going to finish up the artifact registration today. Did you happen to get that sorted?"

Draco had been looking forward to finishing the paperwork on all of his family heirlooms. He had spent the majority of his life trying to make up for all he had done as a boy, and legalizing his artifacts was one of the final steps.

"Oh, yes! I actually did." She steepled her fingers. "Everything you own is now registered with the Ministry of Magic. You'll have to thank Harry for getting Jemila Waterbird to sign off on all of it, though. She refused when _I_ approached her."

Draco nodded, graciously. "I'll be sure to send him an owl."

"Brilliant, and now that _that's_ all done," she said with a sigh, "I have something I want to talk to you about."

"And what's that?" he asked, giving a swift flick of his wand.

The clinking of dishes sounded in the kitchen as his sharpest knife sliced the Beef Wellington that was such a hassle to put together.

"Er—well, in all honesty, I don't think I want to be Minister for Magic, anymore. Actually, I _know_ I don't want to be Minister for Magic anymore."

"Is that so?" Draco cocked an eyebrow and lazily waved his hand.

Two perfect slices of Beef Wellington flew into the room and landed on their plates.

Hermione thanked him and said, "I've done a lot—passed a lot of pertinent pieces of legislation, and some that perhaps weren't so great in the grand scheme of things." She cut into the slab of meat and puff pastry. Her eyes nearly rolled back into her head as her fork scraped her teeth. "Merlin, Draco, this is _fantastic_. For hating to cook, you really are brilliant at it. Anyway, erm—right. I want to resign. Tomorrow, actually."

"This is all very sudden," Draco noted, carefully sawing into the Beef Wellington. "I can't say I would mind having you here at home, though. I could use some assistance with some of the artifacts that are lying about the Heirloom Room. None of them are _bad_ , but as you know there are at least three that tend to sputter rude little curses if you touch them."

Hermione drew in a deep breath. "Well, I wanted to talk to you about that too."

Draco watched her skeptically, encouraging her to go on. Whatever she had to say, it was going to be important—important enough that it would affect the routine that he had grown so used to.

"What would you think about going back to Hogwarts?"

He cackled and bit into the Wellington. When her silence followed, he realized that she was not trying to be funny. "Wait, you're serious?"

"Yes," she said, heavily, biting her lip. "You see, when we were there a few weeks ago, McGonagall offered me a job—"

This was news to Draco. "You didn't tell me that."

"No, I had to think on it first, but—she offered you one too."

Malfoys did not _need_ to work, so naturally, he never had. Instead, he spent his spare time on his hobbies, studying alchemy and Dark artifacts. Any job that he would be qualified for at Hogwarts would be far beneath him. He may not have been the same spoiled boy he was when he was in school, but he was still a Malfoy.

"Well, you can tell her thanks but no thanks. I'm certainly not going to be scrubbing toilets with Filch."

"It's not scrubbing toilets," Hermione scowled. "It's—it's a professorship. Widdle's retiring and they—they need someone to take his place. As the Potions professor—and she didn't say as much, but I'd imagine they'll be needing a new Head of Slytherin House too."

"What?" Draco asked, disbelievingly. He always wondered what it would be like to be Head of Slytherin House, and his love for Potions was no secret either. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Well, I just wanted to make sure that we would be in a good position to go, but when I think about it, I'd much rather be doing that than what I'm doing now. I won't go if you don't want to, but I—I thought maybe you would?"

Draco thought for a moment. It had been years since he'd been to Hogwarts at a full-time capacity, but he did like the idea of being a Potions professor. It would give him more time to study the wonders of alchemy, which was something he had not had time to do in quite a long while.

"We'd have house-elves," he pointed out. "Would you be okay with that?"

"They're paid," Hermione said, waving him off.

"And you'd have to listen to Trelawney speak."

"I can think of at least a dozen spells that would shut her up."

Draco smirked. "So what would you be teaching, then? Or is McGonagall just going to step down and let you be headmistress, because she may as well."

Hermione laughed, though the faint pinkness in her cheeks suggested it was one of her numerous aspirations. "No, nothing like that... I'd actually be teaching Arithmancy."

He raised his brows. "Just like old times, then."

She grinned and nodded. "Just like old times."


	53. Finally

**Several Months Later**

The cottage, ironically, was beginning to look a bit like The Burrow. Of course, a Malfoy would never live in a place as unrefined as Molly and Arthur Weasley's house, so the additions to the small home were more tasteful; every corner of the exterior and interior matched the rest, unlike the uncontrolled chaos of The Burrow. The extensions were, however, a bit of a maze. Two nonsensical hallways jutted out from the main hallway, making the shape of a crude "Y". Each led a Granger-Weasley child to their respective bedroom—one far away from Draco and their mother, as they requested.

"Hugo!" Hermione shouted at the end of the main hall. "Rose!"

Draco had made tea for everyone, as he did all mornings, but he did not expect it to be drunk. While Scorpius had, thankfully, warmed up to Hermione, her children barely came out of their rooms. On the rare occasion that they did, they turned their nose up at his offerings and opted for bizarre pre-made Muggle meals that they could heat up with something they called a _microwave_. He was not sure how he felt about having a dangerous Muggle object in his home, especially since, as Hermione explained, it could explode if they simply put a bit of metal inside of it.

"I _know_ you're mad and brooding and you hate me, but today's the big day. Surely, you're going to be there for your father?"

As he sipped his tea at the dining room table, Draco wondered how much their life would change once Hermione's ex-husband was back in the world. It had, after all, taken a number of months just to get him to sign the paperwork to finalize the divorce. There was no knowing if he was over Hermione yet or not, and after what he put Hermione through, Draco did not like the idea of him leaving Azkaban.

The usual squabbling echoed around the house as Hermione rounded up her two children. She finally emerged from the hallway, her jaw clenched and her fists balled while Hugo sputtered curse words from just behind her.

"Morning, sunshine!" Draco jested, raking over her frizzy hair.

"Don't start," she grumbled, taking a seat at the table. A quick glare in Hugo's direction was all it took for the boy to sit down too. "Drink your tea."

"I'm _not_ drinking that." Hugo crossed his arms. "Number one: _he_ made it. It's probably poisoned. Number two: last time we went there there was no loo."

"He didn't poison—oh, why even bother." Hermione rubbed her temples. "Surely, you're excited that your father is getting out of Azkaban?"

"Where he would've never _been_ if it weren't for you."

Before Hermione could reply, Rose trudged into the room with Scorpius rubbing his eyes close behind her. It was far too early for his son to be awake, but Draco assumed all of the racket woke him up.

"Late night?" Draco asked, pulling out a chair for his only child.

Scorpius grunted in response and took a long drink of tea. Rose, on the other hand, sat by her brother, refusing to touch her tea as she did every morning. For being children, they certainly were cold. If they didn't both look so much like Weasley, he might have thought they were his.

"We'll be leaving in just a few minutes," Hermione announced. " _Make sure you use the bathroom before we go._ There's no public loo there. Well, there might be, but I don't think we ought to go exploring for it."

"Where're we going?" Scorpius asked through a yawn.

" _You're_ not going anywhere," Hugo elucidated. " _We're_ going to go see our dad."

_"Be nice."_

"Oh, he's getting out today," Scorpius remembered, finishing his cuppa. "I forgot about that."

"Of course you did. Your dad is right here, so who cares if ours is locked up in Azkaban?" Hugo spat. "He's just a Weasley, yeah? A stupid blood traitor like the rest of them? Oh, _that's right!_ Your dad is a blood traitor _too!_ "

 _"Enough!"_ Hermione boomed. "No more rowing at the table."

"Whatever."

Draco had grown accustomed to Hermione's children behaving in such a way. Perhaps, Hermione was much easier to accept than he was, or maybe Scorpius had simply grown to like her because she provided him with all of the rarest books. Draco, however, collected Dark artifacts and may have had a hand in breaking up Hermione and Weasley's marriage. At least, that was how the children probably saw it.

Hermione peeked at her watch. "It's almost time. Hugo, go use the loo."

"But Mum—"

"Go!"

Hermione stood up and fixed her blouse, stress evident in the lines of her face. Rose followed her, arms crossed and avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room, as per usual. Before long, Hugo had returned, and Hermione looked at her watch one last time.

"Four minutes until the Portkey sets out." Wordlessly, she summoned a small ratty box that seemed to emerge from the kitchen. "Hugo, Rose. If you could come in a bit closer so you can reach it..."

Draco dabbed his lips with his napkin and got to his feet, deciding it was best to see them off properly. He knew Hermione had been worried about Weasley's release for quite some time, and now that the day had finally come, she was flustered—a word that rarely came to mind when describing Hermione Granger.

"Well, I hope everything goes as well as it can. I'll be here at home if you need anything."

"Thanks." She cracked a smile. "I think it'll be okay. The kids have been waiting a long time for this."

"Right," he said, though he heard the trepidation in her voice. "Well, be safe. Send Weasley my best."

Hugo let out a scoff, which Draco decided was best to ignore.

"I will." She glanced at her watch again. "One minute. Ready, kids? All hands on the Portkey now."

The Granger-Weasley children grumbled in response as they each touched the small box, almost as though nothing in the world could be a bigger chore. Draco found it strange since all they wanted was for their father to be out of Azkaban. Maybe they were incapable of joy when he was in the room.

"We'll be back in a few hours," Hermione said, pecking him on the cheek. "I love you."

Hugo grimaced, but like usual, Draco paid him no attention. Boys his age tended to have a bit of an attitude. Draco knew from experience; he probably had the worst attitude of them all.

"I love you too."

* * *

Azkaban was as awful as Hermione remembered. The stench of urine and mildew permeated the air, the screams of prisoners sounded throughout the many corridors, and the guard in the corner would not stop smirking at her.

It had only been a few minutes when another group spun into the room—the group she most feared seeing. Of course, she knew they would come, eventually, but it did not make it any less awkward.

"Wands," the guard on duty said, palm outstretched. He collected all four of their wands and took his seat once more, seemingly bored and ready for his shift to end.

"Hermione," Molly Weasley acknowledged, her neck craned and her lips tight. By her side stood her husband, Harry, and Ginny.

"Molly." Hermione had seen the woman a few times since she and Ron's split, but only when dropping off or picking up Hugo and Rose. She waggled her fingers at her longtime best friend, earning a glare from Ginny. "Arthur, Ginny, Harry."

Hugo and Rose hugged their grandmother and grandfather, giving Hermione the sigh of relief that she needed. Unfortunately, her former sister-in-law's eyes were still glued on her.

"Where's Malfoy?"

"At home," Hermione replied, anxiously. "I didn't think it would be appropriate to bring him."

"At least you have some sense of what is and isn't appropriate."

Molly was still fussing over the children, so thankfully, she did not have anything to add.

Harry cleared his throat. "Exciting that Ron's getting out. We thought we might have him over for dinner tomorrow for a bit of a celebration, actually. George and Angelina are coming. Bill and Fleur too."

"That's nice." She meant it. It _was_ nice.

"Yeah, we thought it might be," Harry replied. " _Speaking of which_ , Ginny wanted to ask you something."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, waiting for the olive branch she had been aching for. She had, of course, tried to patch things up with Ginny a number of times, but no matter what she did, the redhead held her grudge.

Harry nudged his wife, causing her to reluctantly mutter, "Right. We were—erm—we were hoping you'd join us. Y'know, for the uh—for the kids."

"I'd love to," Hermione beamed. "I'd like them to be able to visit with Ron for a bit before they're back to Hogwarts... He is their father, after all."

Molly, who had just dropped in on the conversation, chided, "Yes, _he is_. And because he's their father, there's _no reason_ for you to bring along—"

Before Molly could finish her thoughts, a final person spun into the room. The guard, whose name Hermione could not remember, got to his feet, almost like the person was unexpected. However, when the tiny woman fixed her patchy red hair and flattened the front of her robes, he sat back down and held out his hand. "Wand."

"Oh, I know the routine, _Wendel!_ " the witch giggled, proffering her curiously long wand. It looked unnatural in her tiny hand.

Hermione noticed Ginny stiffen, and Molly did not seem all that pleased either.

"How wonderful it is that—" The woman whipped around. "Oh." Her face fell as soon as she laid her wide hazel eyes upon Hermione. "I didn't know _you_ would be here."

"I thought my kids might want to see their father get out of Azkaban. Was that daft of me?"

"Well, considering _you're_ the reason he's in here—"

"And the reason he got out," Hermione interjected. A smirk fell on her lips. Maybe she had been spending too much time with Draco, because she found herself doing that more and more.

The woman's face became a deep, horrible shade of red. "Only because you showed up to the trial last minute!"

"You forgot the part when I asked Lenore Thomas to convince the Wizengamot not to throw out my testimony—a testimony that was _only_ going to be tossed in the bin because _you_ asked it to be!"

"Well, he wouldn't have gone to Azkaban at all if you hadn't ratted him out!"

"I never ratted him out! He was _caught in the act_ —by _Aurors!_ "

"And he never would've done it in the first place if you weren't such a bloody slag!"

Hermione could only stare, her mouth agape, much like the mouths of her children and her removed family. Molly had cupped Hugo's ears, murmuring something to Rose that Hermione thought was, "How dare she! In front of your brother, no less!"

The witch grinned, triumphantly. "That's right. You're a slag. A slag for _Death Eaters_ , no less. Brightest witch of her age, my arse."

"Elsie, think what you will, but do _not_ use that kind of language in front of my grandchildren," Molly boomed, angrily. "And about their mother!"

"Molly, this isn't your business, so if you would kindly—"

Elsie did not have the chance to finish her sentence. Two guards came into the room, Ron walking alongside them in enchanted shackles. The air in the room immediately changed as everyone suddenly remembered why they were there: to see a man finally walk free.

"Ronald!" Elsie cried, running towards him. She wrapped her arms around him, despite his chains, and began peppering his face with sticky-sounding kisses. "Oh, when you get out of here, we're going to go out to dinner and go on holiday and get married and—"

" _Please,_ Miss Turting," one of the guards said, exasperatedly, "step _away_ from the prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Elsie breathed, taking a step back. "But he's getting out!"

"And until we read him his rights, he's still a prisoner," the guard explained.

All eyes were on Ron as the second guard recited a long statement that seemed to protect Azkaban employees more than it protected him. Wendel echoed every word that his coworker recited, likely having heard it more times than he could count.

"...because freedom is a privilege, do you understand?"

"Yeah, I understand," Ron said, tiredly.

"Then, Mr. Weasley, you're free to go."

The shackles unbuckled and before they had even fallen to the ground, Elsie ran towards him, squealing in excitement. She planted wet, loud kisses all over his face and judging by everyone else's reactions, they were just as disgusted as Hermione was.

"...and—you're—never—to—come—back—here—again!" Elsie gushed between pressing her magenta lips to Ron's cheek. Lipstick smudges stained his freckled skin, but he _was_ smiling, and for that, Hermione was grateful. "We'll be far too busy for you to be getting into any kind of trouble—except the good kind." The not-so-subtle wink nearly made Hermione gag. Hugo and Rose, impressively, seemed to be even more disgusted than she was.

 _"Ahem,"_ Arthur cut in. He took a step towards his son and gave him a one-armed embrace, much to Elsie's apparent chagrin. "Good to see you out and about, son."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Oh, Ronald, my darling boy!" Molly cried, squeezing him in one of her notoriously tight hugs. "Oh, yes, the kids are here too. Yes, come, come. See your father..."

Hugo and Rose each hugged him, and the grins on all three of their faces warmed Hermione's heart. She had taken them to see Ron in Azkaban a few times since summer started, encouraging them to grow to know him again since he was forced into sobriety. Every visit was somber. Now that he was free, however, it was very, very different.

"Man of the hour," Harry said, clapping him on the back.

"Just glad to be out, mate," Ron replied. His eyes flickered to Hermione. "How's Malfoy?"

It was a genuine question. The words were not laced with hatred, but with understanding and purpose—almost like he wanted to be friends again.

"He's well, thanks." Hermione smiled. "It's good to see you out, Ron."

He nodded. "Thanks, Hermione. I—erm—I suppose I owe you one. Don't think I'd be getting out if it wasn't for you and Thomas talking the Wizengamot into letting you testify."

Elsie scowled.

"All I did was tell the truth," Hermione admitted. "You're better now, and that's all that matters."

" _Better?_ Oh, that's rich. Like something was wrong with him!" Elsie complained. "This woman thinks she can just come in here after what she did—"

"Elsie," Ginny interrupted, meeting Hermione's eyes for a brief second. "We're having a little 'welcome home' dinner for Ron tomorrow. You _will_ join us, won't you?"

Hermione silently thanked her for changing the subject. Based on Molly's expression, Molly was glad to be done with her yammering on as well—or so she thought.

"Oh, what a great idea!" Elsie exclaimed. "I make a delicious macaroni salad, if you'd like. It's sort of an American thing, but it's _really_ lovely. A cousin of mine always made it when she visited from Chicago, but unfortunately she passed a few years ago... Potion gone wrong... Ronald, surely you have some dress robes I can dig out of that _house_ of yours. Oh, no bother. We'll take you to Diagon Alley and—"

"No dressing up," Ginny interjected. "It's nothing fancy. I just thought you'd want to come along since we were inviting everyone." She grazed over Hermione again. "And their partners."

Hermione's heart was soaring. Not only was the olive branch extended to her, but it was extended to Draco as well.

_Progress._

* * *

"Don't wear _that,_ " Hermione scolded. "They _said_ no dressing up."

Draco looked down at his black trousers and white button-down shirt. "I'm _not_ dressed up."

"You _are_ , though!" Hermione started rifling through his wardrobe. "Don't you have anything not so—so _you?_ "

"This may be dressing up by Muggle standards, but it's quite casual in the magical world, really. _Less_ than casual in some circles."

"Maybe for your rich pure-blood friends, but in Ginny and Harry's house, you'll stick out like a sore thumb," Hermione argued, slamming the drawer shut in defeat. She pulled her wand from her hip and transfigured his shirt and slacks into a blue polo and khaki trousers. After proudly examining her work, she said, "There. Now you'll fit in."

"I look like a bloody—"

"Muggle?" Hermione finished, happily. "That's the point. Draco, nobody wears full robes anymore. Even _you_ don't _all the time_."

"I don't buy Muggle clothes," he said, making a face.

"Right. You just get Muggle-style clothes from Twilfitt and Tattings now that it's 'fashionable'." Hermione rolled her eyes. "You must admit this is more _comfortable._ "

"I get Muggle-style clothes from Twilfitt and Tattings because the Ministry tells me I _have_ to," Draco said, unsurely shifting his muscles, taking in the feel of the fabric. It certainly was not as luxurious to the touch as satin was, but the looseness made for a much cozier fit. "Apparently, you can't live within five miles of more than twelve Muggles or you have to dress like one. I suppose I have you to thank for that stupid law."

"Erm—no. I don't think I helped with that one. You're comfortable, though, right?"

"Yes, it's _comfortable_ ," he conceded. "When are we supposed to be there?"

Hermione glanced at her watch. "In ten minutes. We ought to go round up the children."

Draco looked at her, skeptically. " _All_ of them?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, simply. "Scorpius too. Albus will be there, so we may as well take him with us so they can see each other."

With that, she hurried out of the room and began her many shouts of "Hugo! Rose!". The two children were, as expected, not ready to leave, but Scorpius was sitting idly on the sofa, waiting to go. Sometimes, it seemed like his son communicated better with Hermione than he did with him.

It was the fourth time that she yelled when Rose finally emerged from her hallway and Hugo emerged from his. Even with her arms crossed, there was a glint in Rose's eye that suggested she was looking forward to the evening. Considering she and her brother spent most of their days complaining about how Hermione treated their father, it made sense that they would be excited to see him.

"I'm just going to Floo over now," Rose mumbled. "Coming, Scorpius?"

"Yeah, sure," Scorpius agreed and followed her to the fireplace.

As soon as Scorpius disappeared behind Rose, Hugo marched to the fireplace as though he were next. To the boy's dismay, Hermione seized his shoulder.

"Oh no you don't," she said. "What's that in your pocket?"

 _"Mum!"_ he whined. "It's nothing, leave it alone!"

"Nothing, huh?" she asked. With a quick flick of her wand, a bright yellow package floated out of his front pocket. "Cursed Troll Boogers? What did you think you were going to use _this_ for?"

"Nothing!" Hugo said quickly, reaching for the package. "Just give it back!"

"I don't think so," she replied, tucking it in her dragon-skin purse. "Besides, these aren't even _real_ troll boogers. You know, your father, Uncle Harry, and myself all had a pretty interesting run-in with troll boogers in my first year, so I would know..."

Hugo suddenly seemed quite interested as he perked up and stopped reaching for the yellow package. Draco was not sure why he would want troll boogers anyway, but Malfoys were brought up much differently than Weasleys.

"I bet if you asked your dad and Uncle Harry, they'd tell you all about it," Hermione went on, guiding him towards the fireplace. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder and held it out to him.

"Really?" he asked, opening his hands to accept the sooty substance.

Hermione smiled. "Really."

With a new sense of excitement, Hugo dropped the powder and shouted his destination.

"Ready?" she asked, holding her hand out for Draco to take.

He was so unready that the blood was pounding in his ears, but he accepted her hand, anyway. There was not much that he wouldn't do for Hermione Granger.

The pull of Apparition twisted his stomach, though that could have been nerves too. Almost instantly, they landed outside a small brick house with a rather picturesque willow tree in the front yard. Of course, Draco had been there before. Scorpius was best friends with the Potters' son, and it was his job to see him home when Astoria was ill.

Hermione glanced up at him, beamed, and knocked on the door.

It wasn't long before Ginny Potter opened it and urged them inside. Her hair was sticking out in every direction in a way that much reminded him of Hermione's when they were small children.

"Come in, come in. The kids are in the living room with Harry and Albus already. You're the first ones here, actually." They stepped over the threshold and she shut the door behind them. "Dinner's going to be a bit late... I've been fighting with this damn duck and it hasn't been going very well."

"Do you need help?" Hermione inquired, hanging her bag beside numerous light jackets and summer scarves. "Draco's quite good in the kitchen."

The redhead appeared to be having an internal battle with herself. Finally, after a long silence, she said, "Have you cooked duck before?"

"A time or two," he replied, honestly. "You aren't trying to do it the Muggle way, are you?"

Ginny made a face as though he had just said the stupidest thing she ever heard. "I wouldn't know how even if I wanted to. I'm—er—well, just come help, will you?"

Draco shot Hermione a pleading look as Ginny grabbed his arm and dragged him to the next room. Hermione merely grinned and waggled her fingers at him, clearly enthralled to see him bonding with her friend in some way or another. Instead of stopping in the kitchen with the two of them, she walked right by them. In the distance, he heard her exclaim, "Harry!"

"So you see, it's sort of—I don't know. Smoky?" Ginny said. She gestured a black, steaming object that quite resembled a large piece of charcoal.

"That was supposed to be _duck?_ "

She sighed. "It's not salvageable, is it?"

"I think not," he answered, quickly. "Do you have another duck? Or anything else?"

"Well, I have another one in the ice box. I figured we'd need two for everyone... I'm just—I'm not sure if I can—"

"Go get it," Draco ordered. She seemed uncertain, but went to the ice box anyway. "Do you not cook very often?"

"I do, just not _duck_ ," she explained, dropping the half-frozen poultry onto the counter-top. "I was using a recipe from one of my mum's old cookbooks but I think I might've done something wrong..."

Draco noticed an aged green book sitting on the counter near the ice box. He summoned it towards him and found the page that Ginny had bookmarked—a recipe named 'Blackened Glazed Duck'.

"Well, you nailed the blackened part," he snorted. His finger found the step he assumed she botched. "When it says 'blast with _Incendio_ ', how _long_ did you do that?"

"Five minutes, like it says," Ginny replied, defensively.

He narrowed his eyes. "How far away were you from the duck?"

"I dunno." She took a step towards the frozen bird. "Maybe this close?"

"No wonder it's burnt." Draco took her by the shoulders and pulled her a step back. "You should've been standing about here when you did that. Let's let that thaw and then give it another try, yeah?"

"I mean, I could just blast it now and—"

"No, you have to let it thaw naturally," he interjected. "It's the only way for the texture to be right."

Clearly shocked by his knowledge of cooking, Ginny said, "I never expected _you_ to be so...domestic."

"I don't like that word," Draco drawled. "It's no different than brewing a potion, really. You have to do things precisely or else they won't come out correctly."

"Right..." she said, sizing him up. "Well, if you'll follow me, the living room is this way."

Draco followed her, deciding it was best not to remind her that he had been to the house several times. Once they reached the room, he saw Hermione laughing heartily with Potter and Scorpius chattering away with Rose and Albus in the corner. Hugo and Lily were staring at Potter, probably waiting for a good opportunity to ask about the troll that Hermione had mentioned earlier.

"How's the duck coming along?" Potter asked, adjusting his glasses. The corners of his lips were still upturned from his talk with Hermione.

"We're going to try again," Ginny said, taking a seat on the far end of the sofa. Potter was in an armchair and Hermione was on the other end of the sofa, leaving Draco with only one place to sit: right between Hermione and the redhead. He opted to stand. "Malfoy thinks he figured out where I went wrong. Hopefully, he's right."

"Yeah, Hermione was just saying you cook a lot at home," Potter quipped, smirking a bit. "Thought you'd have a house-elf for that kind of thing."

"Not at the cottage. It's just us and the kids."

Potter seemed like he was about to say something smart, but the _whoosh_ of the fireplace interrupted him. A tall black woman that Draco recognized as Angelina Johnson stepped through the grates, but as a dark, redheaded girl stepped through the grates behind her, he remembered that she was no longer a Johnson. She had married George Weasley.

"Angelina!" Ginny gushed, getting up from her spot on the sofa. She rushed towards the woman and hugged her. "So good to see you!"

"Hey, Gin," Angelina replied, bending down for the hug. "Roxanne, go play with Hugo and Lily, would you?"

By the time the girl reached her cousins' side, two more had emerged from the fireplace: a boy that looked almost exactly like George Weasley and George Weasley himself.

"Oi! I thought you were joking when you said you'd invited them," George said, putting his hands in his pockets. "Good to see ya, Hermione. Erm—Malfoy."

Draco reached out to shake his hand. George accepted, but the skepticism on his face suggested he was not at all sure why or how Draco was in the Potters' home. Frankly, Draco asked himself the same questions.

"Bill and Fleur were just behind us," Angelina said, sitting down on the floor. "They didn't bring the kids, though. They were visiting Fleur's relatives or something. I dunno, really."

Something that looked like relief washed over Ginny.

"Are Mum and Dad coming?" George asked, sitting down beside Angelina.

"They couldn't make it," Potter cut in, his eyes briefly grazing over Draco. "Erm—something about a cursed socket wrench."

Just then, the fireplace roared to life with green flames once more. An ethereal blonde woman stepped through them and began offering kisses to everyone's cheeks. He noticed Hermione's jaw stiffen when the woman reached him to fulfill her French tradition, despite her clear distaste for him. One of the older Weasleys, a scarred man called Bill, shook his hand, though he did not seem very thrilled to see him either.

"Should I drag some chairs in here while we're waiting for dinner?" Bill asked as his wife sourly sat beside Hermione.

"That'd be great, Bill. Thanks," Ginny said. "Draco, will you help me in the kitchen real quick?"

He nodded and followed her, Bill, Potter, and George trailing closely behind them to grab chairs from the dining room. Ginny seemed overwhelmed as she approached the icy duck.

"How long is this going to _take?_ "

"At least another hour and a half," he said, honestly.

Ginny groaned. "Alright, alright. Er—well, that's fine then." With that, she hurried back into the living room and sat down in one of the dining room chairs that the men had brought into the room.

There was still an empty spot beside Fleur, but like Ginny, he determined that would not be his best option. Instead, he pulled one of the dining chairs much closer to Hermione and sat down, hoping that the night wouldn't get any more awkward. It was strange to watch all of the conversations going on around him. The kids were all playing and gossiping, while the Potters chattered with Hermione and Bill. Fleur was brooding; about what, he did not know. George and Angelina seemed to only be interested in each other, giggling quietly like romancing teenagers. Draco, as expected, felt entirely left out.

Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, a _crack!_ interrupted the quiet rattle of numerous voices. Weasley had Apparated right into the living room, obviously unaware of how rude that was. Clinging to his arm was a petite, grinning woman. Draco recognized her, mostly from the newspapers, as she had been one of many forgettable faces in school.

"Oh, we're the last ones here," Weasley said, his face reddening a bit. "You lot weren't waiting on us, were you?"

"No, the food isn't even ready yet," Ginny replied, walking over to hug her brother. "So good to have you home."

"Thanks for having us, Gin." Weasley patted her back, harmlessly. "We would've been here earlier but Elsie had to finish her makeup."

" _Fashionably late_ , the French call it," Elsie said, forcing her narrow body between Hermione and Fleur, though there really was not enough space for her. She batted her thickly mascaraed eyelashes, though it didn't look like it was in a flirtatious way. It was almost like her lashes were sticking together and the only way to separate them was to blink with extra force.

"I 'ave no idea what you are talking about," Fleur said, her accent thick.

"Maybe it's a Muggle thing," Elsie replied, waving her off. She crossed her legs. "He's been just giddy being out of that place. I mean, I am too. I've been dying without him being home. And _finally_ , I was able to get out of my flat."

"Where are you living now?" Angelina asked.

"Oh, Ron's house, silly," Elsie giggled. Glancing meaningfully at Hermione, she added, "By the way, we _will_ need you to get the rest of your things out so we can make the house ours again."

"Yeah, sure, I'll do that." The acidity in her tone suggested Hermione did not like the woman at all. Actually, nobody in the room seemed to like Elsie, except Weasley. "Draco, can we—er—make that a priority?"

"That's fine."

"It's no rush," Weasley cut in, hurriedly. "Take your time. I know you two are probably busy."

"Thanks, Ron. It's no problem, though. We'll get it all sorted," Hermione said. "Anyway, I'm glad to see you're out and doing well. I know the kids are happy about it too."

Hugo and Rose hardly seemed to notice their father's presence, as they were far too busy with the other children.

" _Speaking of kids_ , Ronald and I have been talking about having our own. Guaranteed redheads, of course, since we both have red hair." Elsie flipped her mane dramatically, which Draco found strange since her roots were far from red. "That'd make all of you aunties and uncles again! Except you, of course, Hermione, Malfoy."

Ginny inhaled sharply. "Draco, can you maybe help me in the kitchen again? Hermione, we could use a third pair of hands, actually."

Hermione stood and gestured for him to come along.

"Oh, the kitchen is no place for a bloke. I'll help!" Elsie said, excitedly.

"No!" Ginny replied all too quickly. "I mean—erm—sorry, it's—er—just that it's—um—Draco's recipe! Yes! He's quite handy in the kitchen, even though you might not know it."

Elsie frowned but took her seat, seeming a bit put out by the fact that Ginny did not want her assistance. As he and Hermione followed Ginny out of the room, he heard the witch start trying to make conversation with Fleur. The Frenchwoman sounded unimpressed, to say the least.

"She seems..." Hermione started, "pleasant."

"She's awful!" Ginny hissed, leaning against the counter-top. "I mean, she's _obviously_ a rebound—" Hermione winced. "—but Ron is doing so well I didn't have the heart to tell him not to bring her. Merlin, between you and her, there was no way Mum and Dad were going to come round."

"Erm—sorry."

"It's not your fault," Ginny said, rubbing her forehead. "Mum'll get over it with you. She has to. But Elsie—I dunno. Hopefully Ron kicks her to the curb before too long."

Draco wanted to say that Weasley and the irritating woman deserved each other, but he knew better.

"Well, Draco's recipe takes quite a long time from what I understand. If you'd like, I'm sure we could waste a whole lot of time out here," Hermione said with a grin. "You know, to keep an eye on it."

"It's still thaw— _oooh,_ " Ginny said, suddenly realizing what her former sister-in-law meant. "You know, that's a great idea. Malfoy, if you don't mind, there's a couple bottles of pinot noir in the ice box. We better drink it up before Ron finds it."

He drew his brows together. "You keep your wine in your _ice box?_ "

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Would you rather be in there with Little Miss Sunshine and Ron or would you rather be out here with us drinking wine?"

Never had Draco been given an easier choice.

* * *

Hermione had no idea how much time had passed. She did know, however, that she, Ginny, and Draco were incredibly drunk. At some point, Draco and Ginny roasted some asparagus. It was not until they began glazing the duck that Hermione realized just how empty the second wine bottle was. In order to hide the evidence, they had used a Vanishing Spell on the first, but if anyone saw them as drunk as they were, they wouldn't believe they only drank one.

"Oh, we're almost out," she pouted. "Draco, Apparate home and get some more, would you?"

"No, we c-c—" Ginny hiccuped, —can't! Ron!"

"Oh, right."

"You two really are terrible at holding your drink," Draco muttered. Perhaps, he was not as inebriated as she and Ginny were. "The duck is done."

Ginny rushed over to admire his work. "Hermione, he's _b-brilliant._ "

After being on Ginny's bad side for so long, Hermione was enthralled to be spending time with her. Maybe only drunk Ginny was getting along with Draco for now, but it was still progress.

Draco waved his wand and the asparagus and duck floated out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Before he had a chance to even serve beverages, Ginny was shouting, "D-D—" She hiccuped again. "DINNER, EVERYONE!"

They heard chatter as people filed into the dining room. When Ron shuffled past the dining room table and met eyes with Hermione, she quickly hid the wine behind her back. She knew her face was red, and she was sure Ginny's was too.

"Whatcha got there?" Ron asked, stepping into the kitchen. "Is there pumpkin juice?"

"Erm—I don't know. Is there? Gin?"

Ron tried to step past her to get to the ice box, but frowned when he noticed that she was hiding something. "What's that?"

"Oh, nothing!"

"Oh, no reason to hide it from him," Ginny replied. She wrestled the bottle from Hermione and shook it in front of his face. "It's w-w—" She hiccuped. "Merlin's beard! _Wine!_ It's wine!"

"Ginny!" Hermione hissed. "Stop it!"

Angelina made her way into the room. "Is there anything to—what's going on in here?"

"Nothing," Ginny said. She chugged the rest of the wine. "N-nothing at a-all."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and quickly flicked his wand at the empty bottle. It disappeared, but the look of horror on Angelina's face did not.

"Ginny!" she hissed. "How could you? With Ron here?"

"Oh, it's okay," Ron said, tiredly. "I just want some pumpkin juice."

Angelina glared daggers at Ginny and Hermione. "Pumpkin juice sounds great."

Ron headed to the ice box and began rummaging through it. Knowing that what they did was wrong, Hermione kept her mouth shut. She never should have drank with Ginny and Draco—not when Ron was there. It wasn't fair to him.

"Duck looks great, by the way, Gin."

And with that, Ron turned on his heel and went back to the dining room table. Angelina shot them one final look of disdain and trailed behind him.

"We should get out there," Hermione muttered.

Draco and Ginny nodded in agreement and made their way to the table, though Draco had to help Ginny regain her composure several times.

"Ginny, are you—oh, God. Erm—come on, honey. Sit on down," Harry said, awkwardly. He grabbed her arm as she nearly tumbled to the floor. "Nope, nope! _There_ you are."

The drunken woman plopped into the seat beside her husband and grinned. "Well, what are we waiting for? Go ahead and eat!"

Draco mumbled a spell and a knife beside the duck began slicing the bird. Small servings flew onto everyone's plates, followed by the asparagus and the floating gallon of pumpkin juice that Ron had found.

"You know, you really ought to juice your _own_ pumpkins, Ginny. Professor Welbum puts all sorts of stabilizing potion in these," Elsie said, cutting into the duck on her plate. "It tastes much, much better when you put the work in."

"Work, right," Ginny said, venomously, stabbing a piece of asparagus. "Because you'd know all about that."

"Gin, now's not the time," Harry warned.

"Then when _will_ be the time, Harry?" Ginny drunkenly asked. Hermione suddenly realized that her hiccups were gone. "I mean, she's only dating my brother because he's a war hero. It's no bloody secret."

George smirked a little bit, but Bill, Fleur, and Angelina appeared to be nervous. Most of the children seemed confused more than anything, though Rose and Scorpius were shaking their heads.

 _"Excuse me?"_ Elsie spat, slamming her fist onto the table. " _I'll have you know_ that your brother and I have a lot in common, actually. We both love Quidditch and—and we're both redheads!"

"Ron's a _natural_ redhead," Ginny pointed out.

Hermione turned to Draco, who was somehow remaining completely expressionless. Drinking was not the best idea, but how could she have known that Ginny was going to start an argument with Elsie?

Elsie made a throaty noise and turned to Ron. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that, Ronald?"

Ron was cradling his head. " _Please,_ don't put me in the middle of it."

"Yes, don't," Hermione agreed. She gave Ginny a pointed look. "Ron has enough on his plate."

"Nobody asked your opinion, you trollop!"

Hermione gasped and suddenly, Draco was standing, a sneer on his face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Harry and George tutted in unison, George holding out an arm in front of Draco and Harry holding one out in front of Elsie. Draco sunk back into his seat, but his grey eyes were swimming with fury.

"What are you going to do?" Elsie said, snidely. "Put the Imperius Curse on me like the Death Eater you are?"

"Oh, _please!_ " Hermione shouted. "Draco's no more a Death Eater than you are, you miserable twit!"

"What is all zis talk of Death Eaters?" Fleur asked.

"It's dragon dung is what it is!" Ginny exclaimed. "I would never have a Death Eater in my house and if she had half a brain, she'd know as much!"

"Gin, please—" Ron said.

"Don't you 'Gin, please' me!"

"I just want to have a nice dinner..." he trailed off.

"Is this what you people do during holidays?" Draco murmured to Hermione. "And I thought _my_ family was awful."

"Good point, Malfoy," George, who had clearly overhead, said. He pointed at Ginny with his fork. "Gin, quit actin' like an arse. Ron, make your girlfriend shut the hell up. Angelina, rub my neck the way that I like."

"Nice try," Angelina retorted, leaning back in her chair. "You lot _do_ realize you're doing this in front of a bunch of kids, right?"

Ginny and Elsie ignored her and bickered some more, but none of it was necessarily discernible, set aside words like "horse-toothed bitch" and "drunk has-been". This was ironic considering Elsie was supposedly in love with Ron, the former king of drunk has-beens.

"Els, let's just go—"

_"We're not going anywhere, Ronald!"_

"Erm—Mum, is there any 'sparagus left?"

Ginny turned to Lily and quickly softened. Her face, which was already quite pink from intoxication, had become unnaturally scarlet, much like Elsie's hair. She passed the tiny girl the asparagus and murmured, "Good girl. Yes, eat your veg."

Elsie, who apparently also realized how inappropriate they were being, cleared her throat. "So George, Ron tells me you've considered letting him come back to the shop."

George nodded. "As long as he stays sober, he's got a job with me."

"That's wonderful."

It was silent for another long, awkward moment. Finally, Hermione asked, "Gin, where's James?"

"Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you! He's actually off with Charlie in Romania. Harry and I are just so proud," Ginny gushed. She nudged her husband. "Aren't we, Harry?"

"Yes, yes. Incredibly proud." Harry's face, however, told a different story. Hermione could see the melancholy in the creases of his forehead, and she had to assume it was because James didn't follow in his footsteps. She knew how much he wanted James to become an Auror like he was. He never expected Albus to become much of anything, so in Harry's eyes, Lily was his last hope.

"Did he make his N.E.W.T.s finally, then?" Ron inquired. Hermione still could not believe how absolutely normal he was, now that he was sober. "He was havin' a hard time with those, wasn't he?"

"No, he didn't finish," Ginny admitted. "I wasn't happy about it, but he's of age, so what can a mother do... He's in good hands with Charlie."

"Speaking of Hogwarts," Angelina started. "A little owl told me you and Malfoy are going to be teaching."

Hermione's face flushed. "Well, er—yes. McGonagall offered us jobs a few weeks ago and after a few chats, we decided it'll be good for the both of us. Who told you?"

"What're you going to be teaching?" Harry inquired before Angelina could reply. He seemed a bit hurt that Hermione hadn't told him.

"Arithmancy and Potions. Draco and I are looking forward to it, aren't we?"

Draco dabbed his lips with his napkin and nodded. "Yes, very much so."

"Well, I can't think of anyone better for the job," Angelina said with a nod. "Malfoy, you were pretty good in Potions, weren't you? Sorry, I don't really remember much about you other than—er—well, you know."

"He actually mentored me in our final year," Hermione admitted. "I was—er—distracted, I suppose, from the war. I probably would've gotten an 'E' or an 'A' on my Potions N.E.W.T. if it weren't for him."

"Which would be absolutely _catastrophic_ for _you_ ," George poked.

"It would've been!" she laughed. "Point is, Draco will be a great professor."

Draco did not thank her, but the small smile on his lips told her that he appreciated it. The dinner was nothing short of hell, and still, he sat by her side, quiet and respectful.

"So will you," Ron said, his voice small. "And you deserve it, Hermione. You really do."

Hermione flashed a toothy smile. "Thanks, Ron. Really, it means a lot."

Elsie opened her mouth, almost like she wanted to say something horrible, yet she didn't. Instead, she ate her final piece of asparagus.

"Hey Mum?" Hugo asked from across the table.

"Yes, dear?"

"D'you think Rose and me can stay at Dad's this week?"

Hermione turned to Ron and raised her eyebrows. "I mean, if you're okay with it..."

Ron beamed at her in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"That means _yes_."

* * *

"That was a bloody nightmare!" Hermione giggled, falling into bed beside Draco. "I thought all the snarky comments would be at us, but that Elsie, she's something else."

"Real piece of work, yeah." Draco buried his face in her neck and inhaled her intoxicating smell. "At least one good thing came out of it. No kids tonight."

Scorpius was going to stay at the Potters' for the evening, giving them the alone time they'd been robbed of all summer.

"I just hope he can handle them," she said with a sigh.

"It'll be fine," Draco replied. "That's the calmest I've seen Weasley, well, I think ever."

"Yeah, sobriety really seemed to suit him," Hermione agreed. She rolled over to straddle him and pressed her lips to his. " _And now that we're alone,_ how about some more wine?"

Draco smirked. "Great minds think alike, Granger."

* * *

**One Month Later**

King's Cross Station did not seem as familiar as it usually did. Hermione had been there dozens of times, both to go to Hogwarts herself and to send her children there. However, it was the first time that she would be going back to the school as an adult without the help of Ariana Dumbledore. She was, like Hugo and Rose, going to take the Hogwarts Express. Of course, she and Draco were expected to be there earlier, though, which meant she would be leaving a week before her children.

"I hope Ron can get them here without any problems," she mumbled, trudging towards the edge of the train tracks, her luggage in tow. "It'll be their first time without their mum, poor dears."

"They'll be fine," Draco insisted. "Weasley couldn't get himself into trouble even if he wanted to. That girlfriend of his would have his head."

Hermione chuckled. How right he was.

"It's awfully empty," Draco noted. They were, in fact, the only two people on Platform 9¾. "We didn't miss it, did we?"

"No," Hermione said, doubtfully, peering down at her watch. "We're fifteen minutes early. McGonagall _did_ say most people don't take the train up... I know Neville and Hannah live there year-round."

"But surely we aren't the _only_ ones."

Hermione shrugged.

They waited quietly, occasionally checking their watches as the moments ticked away. By the time that the scarlet train had come to a halt beside them, the fifteen minutes had passed, and nobody else was in sight.

"Just us, then," Hermione deduced.

Draco nodded and followed her onto the train, their luggage trailing behind them. They had barely stepped into the train car when a tiny house elf hurried towards them, sporting a rather hideous olive blazer and over-sized shoes.

"Jissy takes the luggage, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy!"

Hermione could not protest, as the elf had a surprising amount of strength and had Disapparated with her luggage before she could utter a word.

"You better get used to that," Draco said.

"I suppose so," Hermione grumbled, though she was still quite uncomfortable with it.

"Well, shall we?" he asked, beckoning her inside. "We best find a good compartment. Seems we have the lot to choose from."

Hermione led the way, finally stopping at a compartment in the back. She sat down with a heavy sigh and put her hands in her lap, preparing for the long journey to the Scottish Highlands.

"Strange, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Being back on this train." She leaned into him and pulled his hand towards her. As he coiled it around her waist, she added, "Not wanting to kill each other."

"My, my, those are _Slytherin_ thoughts, my dear," he purred. "Perhaps you _were_ sorted all wrong."

 _"Mmm,"_ she hummed, sitting back up. She pressed her lips to his for a long, lingering moment. " _Personally,_ I wouldn't change anything."

He tucked her hair behind her ear. "I would."

With a sigh, she leaned back into him, jerking a bit as the train began to roll forward. "Well, it's too late for that, Professor Malfoy."

"Well, _Professor Granger,_ I suppose we'll just have to make better use of our time this time around."

Hermione grinned. "I think we can manage that."

And with the steam of the scarlet train billowing into the sky, the couple prepared themselves for a new start at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—one without prejudice, one without war, and one without anything to hold them back from their destiny: each other.


End file.
